


What A Catch, Patty

by ThatsWildPatrick



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mermaids, Angst, Body Horror, Domestic, Farmer Patrick, Fisherman Patrick, Fluff, Heavily inspired by Of Monsters and Men, Iceland, Language Barrier, Like the country, M/M, Mermaids, Mermaids are racist lol, Most of this was written listening to OMAM lol, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Siren Pete, Sirens, Slightly inspired by What A Catch Donnie, Slow Burn, Smut, Speciesism, Swearing, The mermaids/sirens are scary lol, This isn't like The Little Mermaid, by that i mean, more characters may be added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-12 13:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 74,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11737830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatsWildPatrick/pseuds/ThatsWildPatrick
Summary: Every day, Patrick goes fishing.He pushes out his boat, he calls his dog, he sails out to sea, he casts his nets, and he waits, holding a fishing pole over the side.Everyday, Patrick catches fish: He eats one for dinner, he gives one to his dog, and he sells the rest in town.Today was different.Today, Patrick caught a monster.





	1. A Little Dream Of Mine, A Little Nightmare Of Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, new fic time!
> 
> Just as a warning, my last two fics have been set in realistic settings, but with this one- I'm going balls to the wall mythology lol
> 
> Also, side note- There is some Icelandic in this fic (I know, I'm sorry, but I'm all about dat authenticity). Now, I don't speak much Icelandic, but I do speak Norwegian- so I tried my best to muddle through and used some google translate too. But if any Icelandic people read this (Any of you out there lol?), please feel free to correct me! As I said, authenticity matters.
> 
> Thank you all for the amazing receptions on my last two fics, and I hope this one lives up to expectations!
> 
> Enjoy! <3
> 
> (A/N: Check this out, it was drawn by okujosu_san, and it's amazing. https://www.instagram.com/p/BXr1F2QlBU1/?taken-by=kikin_j)

 

Iceland.

 

Patrick Stumph was moving to Iceland.

 

 _Patrick Martin Vaughn Stumph_ \- was moving to _Iceland_.

 

Now, you may ask: 'Patrick, what the actual fuck are you doing?'

 

And, yes, many people had asked him that exact question over the past month, but he had a very concise set of reasons:

 

  1. It’s a beautiful country.
  2. It’s...got friendly people, apparently.
  3. There’s...great...job prospects.
  4. There are uh- uh... _Puffins_ , sometimes- those are cool, right?
  5. …Cute...little birds...
  6. ...Okay, so...maybe the reasons weren’t so concise after all.



 

Patrick exhaled shakily, trying to calm the writhing fear and regret settling in his stomach. He opted to look at the view through the train window, trying to calm himself down. He’d made a decision, and he had to stick to it- He couldn’t very well run home to his mom’s skirts _now_.

He was an adult... _kind of_...And being an adult meant...responsibilities...and uh- _taxes_ …?

 

Fuck.

 

He’d moved to Iceland.

 

What the fuck.

 

Patrick shook his head lightly, furrowing his brow and setting his face into stone as he glared out at the landscape. Well...despite feeling like he was on the edge of a panic attack, he had to admit- it was beautiful.

Bright green, lush land, dotted with far and apart brightly coloured wooden houses. Proud, jagged and gigantic mountains tipped with white clear snow, poked up into the bright blue sky- that was streamed with a few fluffy clouds.

 

So...The real reason he’d moved to Iceland…

 

It was a little...impulsive, he had to admit, but basically- when he was three years old, his cousin had come to visit his family in Chicago. She’d just been in Reykjavik for her honeymoon, and she’d brought Patrick, his older brother- Kevin, and his older sister- Megan, some souvenirs as presents.

 

Megan had received a necklace made of volcanic rock, and she’d always beg mom and dad wear it _all the time_ \- but they always insisted she save it for special occasions, as to not break or lose it.

 

Kevin had been given a troll carved out of the same black rock Megan’s necklace was made of, and to this day, it still held a prime position on his desk- which he didn’t actually use for anything productive, like homework.

 

Patrick had been gifted a toy puffin, seeing as he was so young. He’d named it Waffles for some reason, and he’d become incredibly attached to the tiny bird- so much so, that it was literally in his rucksack right now... _it was hidden under everything he owned_ , but it was still there.

 

His mom had been brought some fancy black salt, and a framed picture of the Hvítserkur under the northern lights. The Hvítserkur was a rock formation that stood on a stretch of black sand, surrounded by a rocky ocean; Some people said it looked like a dragon, and others said it was a petrified troll, but to Patrick- Well, he’d just seen a rock, albeit- a very pretty rock.

 

All through his childhood, whenever he’d had a shitty day at school, or was just having a general ' _bad life_ ', he’d sit in front of that picture- that took prime position in their kitchen, and he’d stare. It would always calm him down, and it captivated him in a way he could hardly describe. His siblings would always joke that he had been Icelandic in a past life, as his obsession with the picture was obvious.

Patrick wanted to go there. He wanted to be able to look at it every day- for real.

 

So, as soon as he was able, he got a job, and on an impulse, he'd began saving up money.

On his eighteenth birthday, he’d announced his plans to his family- who had, in all honesty, been expecting him to go the Chicago university, not move to the Arctic Circle to do god knows what.

 

They’d questioned, interrogated, and argued, but Patrick’s resolve had stayed strong, and his dream had remained unwavering. When his mom saw just how committed and enamoured he was- she’d let him go... _begrudgingly_.

Patrick had applied and completed all the immigration forms, and he was cleared to move to Iceland.

His mom and dad given him a few hundred dollars in addition to the impressive $986.43 he’d saved up, and they both came to see him off at the O’Hare airport.

With a final few tight hugs and dubious words of ' _good luck_ ', they’d watched him leave to the gate of the Reykjavik flight, one-way ticket to Iceland firmly in his hand, and gigantic travel rucksack- that made him look reminiscent of a tortoise, on his back.

 

He’d arrived in Reykjavik after a 6 hour flight- in which he’d been squished next to a woman with a baby, and an old man who’s only fucking hobby was to eat peanuts. _Noisily_.

The capital city had been beautiful- but Patrick wasn’t here for the city, he’d had enough of cities. He wanted a small house, isolated in the middle of nowhere, and with a window looking out at the rock that had plagued him since his cousin had brought them that framed picture.

 

The Hvítserkur was in the Vatnsnes peninsula, and the closest civilization he could get to by train, was a tiny town called Reykir- from there, he’d have to walk...or preferably get a ride, but there were no guarantees.

As he glanced down at his watch, he realized that the two hour train journey was almost over, but as he looked outside- the landscape only kept getting more and more deserted.

 

The train rolled into a tiny station- if you could _even call it that_ ; It was more like a tiny, wooden yellow shack-type building, painted with a sign reading 'Reykir'.

There was an announcement in- what Patrick supposed was, Icelandic, and while he couldn’t speak said language... _and yes_ , he had moved to a country without even knowing how to say ‘ _Hi_ ’ in their language- but all in all, he could safely assume it was time to get off.

 

 

 

 

Ignoring the painful twisting terror in his stomach, he stepped off of the train, hooking his bag on his shoulder, before he glanced back at the vehicle- that had promptly started moving away.

He felt panicky terror bubble in his chest getting close to escaping, climbing its way up Patrick’s insides steadily.

 

The strawberry-blonde exhaled sharply and nodded with a furrowed brow, before turning clearly and marching into the shack.

 

An old man sat behind a desk, newspaper in hands and cap on his head and he hummed interestedly, as his bright blue eyes flitted across the words on the pages.

Patrick stepped forwards awkwardly, head tilting a little to try and make his presence known. The man’s gaze remained on the page, and he licked his finger before flipping the page.

 

Patrick squinted, before clearing his throat softly.

 

No response.

 

Patrick furrowed his brow, and cleared his throat again- much more loudly, fakely, and dramatically this time.

 

But once again- nothing.

 

Patrick chewed on his lip, glancing out of the window at a large, wedge of a mountain, standing solidly amongst the long, green grass.

He stared out until the swirling maelstrom in the pit of his stomach calmed, and he looked back at the old man.

 

"E-Excuse me?"

 

The man suddenly looked up, smiling kindly and making a loud apologetic noise. "Ó halló þarna!"

 

Oh fuck.

 

"Hvað þarftu hjálp við?"

The old man’s kind smile made him feel marginally better about not knowing what the fuck he was saying. Patrick tried to make an effort to communicate, "Uhh- uh- _English?_ "

The man raised his eyebrows, and leaned back a little with an open noise of understanding, before smiling apologetically. " _Cannot_ \- _English_ , Fyrirgefðu." The snippets of English were heavily accented, and Patrick knew he’d have no luck.

The man‘s apologetic voice rang forth again.

 

"Ég get ekki talað ensku. Ég lærði aldrei-"

 

"N-No, it’s okay- it’s fine, really-"

 

It wasn’t really okay.

 

He was 100% fucked.

 

Patrick felt like he was about to have a mental breakdown, so to spare the old man having to witness one of his famous panic attacks, he decided to excuse himself with a quiet nod, gentle smile, and a sad word of ' _Thank you_ '.

 

He quickly spotted what looked like bathroom doors, black wood painted with small male and female stick figures- but just to make sure he wasn’t about to make a huge, cultural faux-pas, he pointed at the doors and widened his eyes expectantly, while nodding inquisitively, waiting for confirmation that these, _were_ _in fact_ \- the bathrooms.

The old man smiled and nodded, "Já, þetta eru baðherbergin."

Patrick gave him an awkward smile, and nodded gratefully, before stepping through the male-stick figured door.

 

After pacing around for a few moments, Patrick shrugged the rucksack away, and collapsed against one of the sinks, letting himself sob openly.

He pressed his mouth over his forearm and squeezed his eyes shut- remembering the old man could probably still hear him.

 

Oh god what had he done? He'd moved on a whim to a country with twice as many sheep as there were people. He couldn't even speak the language- oh fuck, he had nowhere to _sleep_. And he couldn't even just sleep outside because it was fucking _ICELAND_.

Patrick sobbed heavily again, overwhelmed and feeling like he was drowning, as he desperately tried to catch his breath- an asthma attack would _not_ be ideal right now.

He inhaled and exhaled heavily, as the strong urge to just run across the country and swim back to the US nonstop, rose through his chest, clawing its way to his mind.

Patrick groaned, sniffing heavily before leaning up, hands clasped and gripping around the sink as he stared at himself in the mirror.

 

Great.

 

He looked like a mess.

 

Red, puffy eyes, mouth covered in drool from crying, and tears slipping down his cheeks.

 

 

 

"Hey, uh- are you okay?"

 

 

 

Patrick's ears pricked up at the voice- he'd never been so happy to hear English in his entire life. He turned instantly and frantically, jumping at the suddenness, but eager at the fact that there was someone in this goddamn village who could understand him.

 

A young man stood at the door, a gentle hand pushing it closed behind him, while he stared forwards at Patrick with wide, careful and concerned, big brown eyes.

He was a little pale- living in Iceland had probably contributed to that, and he had rich, dark brown hair, that was mostly covered by a knitted, bobble hat; It sported a Scandinavian pattern in earthy, natural colours.

He was wearing a jacket that was reminiscent of a parka, that was way too big for him, and under it, he was wearing an equally earthy coloured knitted sweater. His feet were buried into brown work boots, and Patrick noticed his posture was a little guarded.

But despite the whole 'Icelandic sheep farmer' vibe he had going on, his legs were clad in black skinny jeans, and Patrick felt more at home- considering he was wearing the same.

 

"You- _You speak English?_ "

 

The man grinned, mirth glinting through his eyes.

 

 

"Fyrirgefðu hvað sagði þú?"

 

 

Patrick sobbed again, sharp, desperate and involuntary, and the man shook his head quickly, moving over to his side and rubbing a hand on his back. "Hey, hey, hey- I do- _I do_ , I'm sorry, dude, that was a sucky joke."

Patrick laughed through his sob and nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "Yeah, it really was."

The man laughed too, and beamed kindly, hand pulling away from Patrick's back to be offered as a handshake instead.

 

"I'm Brendon. Brendon Urie."

 

Patrick smiled with a huff of sad laughter, and took his hand, shaking it a little more weakly than he usually would. "Patrick Stumph."

 

"You're American too huh?- Wait, don't tell me-"

Patrick stared with wide, inquisitive eyes and a raised brow that spoke for itself, saying something along the lines of: ' _What the fuck are you doing?_ '

 

"Illinois!"

 

Okay...weird.

 

"Uh- Yeah, actually."

 

Brendon grinned proudly, squirming with his joy. "Oh- it's your accent. I knew I still had it!" Patrick smiled awkwardly and the man snapped his fingers, before finger-gunning at Patrick idly. "Right, okay, reason I even came in here- Why were you crying?"

 

Patrick gulped slightly, shuffling his shoes- converse sneakers, which in hindsight, maybe were not the most sensible choice. "I uh-" He struggled not to start crying again, breathing shakily and exhaling deeply. His voice rang with fake cheeriness, face plastering with a grin and arms gesturing wildly. "I moved to Iceland!"

 

"Uh-huh...?"

 

"And I literally- I don't- I don't know anyone, and I can't even speak-"

 

"Oh fuck," Brendon started laughing, head tipping back as he stumbled a little. Patrick furrowed his brow, and scolded himself as a few angry tears escaped the brims of his eyes.

"It's not funny." He tried to sound stern, but it only came out pathetic as it laced with sobs and gasps- making him sound like a little girl who'd just fallen from her bike.

 

Brendon shook his head, looking apologetic and putting a hand on Patrick's shoulder, "N-No, I'm sorry- I uh- I just-" Another laugh escaped him and Patrick was almost ready to sock him in the face.

 

"I did _the exact_ same thing."

 

Patrick's eyes softened immeasurably and a soft, relieved exhale escaped him. "...So I'm not-"

Brendon straightened up, holding back a few hiccups of laughter. "No. You're not the only one." Patrick could only sigh again, as Brendon kept speaking. "I wanted a change of scenery- I grew up in Las Vegas, but I always liked the sea…" He gave a fond smile as his eyes blankly stared forwards at nothing in particular. "So I packed up and moved to Iceland on my eighteenth birthday- you look pretty young, so I'm assuming you did that too?"

 

Patrick could only nod with a sniff. "Oh dude." Brendon smiled empathetically, hooking an arm around Patrick's shoulders and grabbing his rucksack with the other, leading him out of the bathroom.

As soon as they stepped out, the old man at the desk leaned over to see them, smiling kindly and sympathetically. "Er hann í lagi?"

Brendon nodded, unhooking his arm and opting to pat the boy's shoulder instead. "Já, það er allt í lagi."

Patrick's eyes widened a fraction at Brendon's language skills- even though Patrick couldn't really tell, he didn't seem to have an accent.

Brendon laughed quietly, "Hann er bara eins og ég var." The old man hummed sternly with an amused smile, leaning back again, whilst fluttering the newspaper. "Flutt til Íslands með ekkert?"

Brendon nodded at the old man's question with a grin, "Nákvæmlega." He turned to Patrick with a smile, "I can help you out with finding a house today- or maybe not a house...maybe, just... _somewhere to sleep_...?"

 

Patrick nodded eagerly, "Y-Yeah, that'd be swell-"

 

"Swell? Holy shit dude, are you like actually ninety years old?"

 

Patrick shrugged with a mumble, eyes casting to the floor, but Brendon grinned. "Nah- just kidding bro- Sjáumst seinna alligator!"

 

"Sjáumst á morgun, Brendon." The old man laughed as the two Americans marched out of the train station.

 

Once they were outside again, Brendon took a cheery deep breath, before passing Patrick's bag to him and motioning with his head, "C'mon, let's go."

Patrick nodded, hooking the rucksack around his shoulders again as he trudged after Brendon- who instantly turned with realization in his eyes. "Oh by the way- that was Addi, he's cool, nice guy. Told me some kid who spoke English was crying in the bathroom."

 

Shit, he _had_ heard it.

 

Patrick nodded awkwardly, trying to remember the name- _Addi the train guy_ , okay, he could remember that one.

They walked out over plains of grass, heading towards a tiny smattering of houses, and some parked cars.

"-Ah, dude, yo, this is really great- I haven't been able to talk to someone from home for so long!"

Patrick smiled tightly, "So, uh- How long have you been here?"

"You're asking how old I am?"

Patrick's eyes widened and he shook his head, at Brendon's stern expression- but as his facade dissolved into a grin again, Patrick could only glare half-heartedly.

 

"Dude, it's _impolite_ to ask a lady her age-"

 

"Brendon."

 

Another loud laugh before- "I'm twenty-one years young. Been here for..." He stopped to calculate, with a concentrated squint. "-Four years!"

 

Patrick nodded, eyes firmly locked on the grass beneath him, watching it shift and flatten under his footfalls. Brendon sighed happily, making Patrick's head flick up to see that they'd arrived at a picturesque wooden, black house, with a red door and windows, and with fluffy grass growing on the roof.

 

"This is Thury's house- she's cool too, makes kick-ass pies."

 

Patrirck nodded again- _Thury the pie woman_ , okay, he could still cope to remember that.

 

Brendon jogged up to the door, and motioned for Patrick to follow when he saw that the redhead had hung back. "Yo, c'mon- she's nice dude, I swear."

Patrick stepped forwards gingerly, but still hovered behind Brendon, making the man huff in amusement, before he knocked loudly on the bright red wood with a smile.

 

"Her husband's Skefill, he like- buys shitty houses, fixes 'em, rents them out, sells 'em- shit like that. He'll be able to help us, I think."

 

Patrick nodded, concerned that this list of people was getting longer. _Skefill the house guy_ , okay, he could still manage that.

 

A few mere moments later, the door swung open and a woman stood at the entrance with a warm smile. "Ah, hvernig ertu, elskan-" She turned to Patrick with wide eyes, before glancing back at Brendon curiously. "Og hver er þetta? Ný vinur?"

Brendon grinned, rising up onto his toes for a second and nodding. "Já, nýi vinur. Hann er frá Ameríku líka."

The woman made a small noise of surprise with a smile, and ushered them inside with an outstretched arm.

Brendon bounced into the house, grinning at Thury with a wide beam as he passed her, while Patrick nervously tottered behind him, with an apologetic, nervous smile at the woman.

 

The three stepped into the kitchen, that smelt sweet, like wood...and well-made biscuits and cakes. Brendon didn't even have time to ask before Thury was opening a tin, holding it out to the two and offering both of them a biscuit. Brendon laughed quietly and took one, followed suit by Patrick who mumbled a grateful ' _Thank you_ '.

 

Patrick was feeling much better- the universe had really helped him out here. Despite the overwhelming chances, he'd met Brendon- another American, who was well known in the town, and who had experience in the country. He also knew that there were at least four 'cool' people in the country- not a bad start, if he did say so himself.

 

"Við þurfum að tala við Skefill."

 

Thury nodded kindly, "Auðvitað, hann er í rannsókninni." Brendon nodded, thanked her for the biscuit, before Patrick felt himself be pulled away through the kitchen door, and then promplty pushed into another room.

 

An old wooden desk sat in the middle, and a tall, noble-looking man stood at a huge bookshelf, that was filled with books and a few pictures of- what Patrick assumed, were children and grandchildren.

Patrick assumed this was Skefill.

Before Brendon could even speak, the man's voice rang out.

 

"Og hvernig ertu í dag, Brendon?"

 

Brendon's grin flickered for a split second- Patrick hardly caught it, but the young man opted to talk anyway, not letting the firm, bored tone hold him back.

 

"Ég er fínn þakka þér," Brendon pushed Patrick forwards a little- making the redhead shrink back, but finally stay put, at the assuring whisper of ' _Trust me_ ', from Brendon.

He clapped a hand on Patrick's shoulder, and Skefill turned to eye Patrick up and down- the boy hunched a little, but just about managed to furrow his brow and straighten his spine as Brendon's confident voice rang out again.

 

"þetta er vinur minn- Patrick." Brendon looked at Patrick expectantly, and the redhead's eyes widened as he gaped a little, before finally choking out a timid- ' _Hello_ '.

 

Skefill hummed to himself, "American?"

 

Oh thank god, he spoke English.

 

"Y-Yes, sir."

The man smiled sympathetically. "So," He turned to face them, tossing a book on the desk. "I'm assuming you need somewhere to sleep, is that correct?" Patrick nodded eagerly, not only did the guy speak English- there was only a miniscule trace of an accent, oh god, someone up _there_ was watching over him.

 

Skefill looked thoughtful, navy blue, stormy eyes squinting in thought as he bit the inside of his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, pointing at Patrick with a harder squint, "Are you scared of the sea?"

Patrick shook his head vehemently, and the man hummed, moving over to a stack of papers on his desk. Skefill rooted around for a moment, before producing a single sheet of paper from the pile and handing it over to Patrick.

 

The redhead took it gingerly, and tilted his head as he tried to read over the words- it was all in Icelandic, _goddamnit_ , but there _was_ a picture-

 

"Oh, sorry! I forgot- Brendon, could you?"

 

Brendon nodded with a smile and tugged the sheet from Patrick's hands, brown eyes whizzing backwards and forwards along the lines.

The man's face broke out into a grin, as he started nodding slowly, and, as soon as his eyes had reached the end of the page- he turned to Patrick, nodding happily. "I think you're gonna like it." He glanced towards Skefill, "Það er fullkomið, Þakka þér fyrir."

 

"English. For our guest, remember?"

 

Brendon looked sheepish for a beat, before grinning once again. "Oh yeah- sorry dude." Patrick tried to begin to tell him ' _No problem_ ', but Brendon stepped in once again, swiftly cutting him off.

 

"D'you have-... _let's see_...it's 73468.37 króna..."

 

"What?" Patrick's voice was choked and his eyes were wide, but Skefill spoke up again to calm his fears. "$700 dollars. To buy."

 

Patrick's eyes widened even further, "T-To buy? Like- to- to _own_...?"

Skefill nodded, "I don't charge very much, I'm not greedy. It's small, but I think it will be fine for you." Patrick nodded back slowly.

 

Holy shit, he hadn't even been in the country for an hour, and he was already gonna buy _a house_.

 

His mom would never believe this.

 

Patrick revelled in silent amazement for a few moments, before a voice cut through his thoughts.

 

"So, do you?"

 

"What?"

 

Brendon's eyebrows were raised and his eyes were wide as he gestured with the sheet of paper, trying to coax information from the boy. "...Have $700 dollars?"

Patrick froze for a second before nodding frantically, pulling his bag from his shoulders and rooting around in the front pocket, and promptly producing an envelope that contained his only lifeline right now.

 

"I have around...1,200- 1,300, somethin' like that."

 

Skefill nodded, "Brendon will take you, you can decide if you like it, and if you _do_ want it- you can send the money back with _him_." Patrick nodded eagerly and an involuntary smile blossomed on his face, his eyes tearing up of their own accord.

 

These people were fucking angels, he was so grateful, _oh god_.

 

"Thank you, thank you very much."

 

Skefill smiled kindly, before his face dropped and he made a small, thoughtful sound. He moved over to the bookshelf again, scanning the titles on their spines before pulling out a thick book, and handing it to Patrick.

The boy took it, gazing down at the cover: ' _Beginner's Icelandic_ ' stood in white text over a picture of a teal, powdery lake, ruptured with rough, jagged black rocks that poked out through the surface.

 

"That should help."

 

Patrick smiled again, giving a breath laugh and wiping a few tears away with his sweater's sleeve.

 

"Thank you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick stepped out of the range rover, closing the door and looking up at the house with wide, amazed eyes.

"Everything from this fence-" Brendon patted a wooden fence, with an arch hooked with a sign that read 'Hindisvik', "To everything over that hill-" He pointed up at a grassy knoll that had black and grey rocks jutting out of it, "And everything down to that part of the beach-"

Brendon jogged over to a nearby cliff edge, pointing down.

 

"COULD BE YOURS, FOR JUST 700 DOLLARS!"

 

Patrick laughed loudly at Brendon's ' _teleshopping salesman_ ' voice, before stumbling through the gate and striding over to Brendon, breathing in the air deeply.

 

He'd never breathed anything this pure- he was sure of it.

 

Patrick reached Brendon, and then peered down over the edge of the cliff, only seeing a clear dive into the sea.

He gulped a little, but Brendon didn't notice and only kept speaking. "There's sand down there too, y'just can't see it 'cause of the perspectives." Patrick nodded slowly, still staring down into the murky water when Brendon shook his shoulder a little. "Look up there." Patrick obliged, looked up and everything inside him froze.

 

"That's 'Hvítserkur'- The petrified troll, y'know it right?"

 

Patrick nodded with wide eyes and an open mouth. The actual reason he'd moved here sat right there; The rock formation stood proudly on a hilly plain of wet black sand, and the sea parted around it sheepishly- almost looking afraid as it timidly lapped the sand.

 

"You can walk over to it from here- just, get back before the tide comes in, okay?"

 

Patrick nodded, resisting the urge to go immediately as Brendon pulled him towards the house; A roof covered with fluffy grass, walls made of wood, painted blood red with a white door and white window frames.

 

They stepped inside and Patrick's eyes widened of their accord.

 

The walls were pure, sweet-smelling, shaved wooden slats, all stacked horizontally.

There was a small kitchen that was open plan to the living room; The kitchen was small and rustic with a large, bay window that looked out over the sea. There was a huge fridge, and while Patrick didn't think he needed _that much_ food, he supposed it was good to store things up for winter- for when travelling wouldn't be very easy.

There was a small round table surrounded with four chairs, and the cupboards were filled with shiny copper-coloured pots and pans, white plates and the drawers were full of sparkling, silver cutlery.

 

In the living room, a small, comfy-looking couch and an armchair covered with a knitted blanket, took center stage. While a warm, fluffy, grey- and seemingly, _fur_ rug covered the floor, and a huge, empty bookshelf was pressed against the wall.

 

It was small- like Skefill had said, but cozy and warm, and Patrick loved it already.

He looked up to see a balcony of sorts, fenced off with wooden banister and Brendon nodded to it. "Bed's up there, I think. Have a look around, I'll wait here."

 

Patrick nodded and moved down a small hallway that led out of the kitchen-living room.

 

There were three doors, two on the left, and one on the right.

 

He opened the first door to his left and peered in to find a tiny study, and Patrick could only grin- it would make a perfect music room, and with no neighbours around for miles, he could be as loud as he wanted to for the first time in his life. Take _that_ , _mom_.

 

Patrick moved out of his future study and headed over to the other door, further down the hallway on the left, and it swung open to reveal the bathroom.

 

It was large, and the walls were- surprisingly, made of _stone_. The only thing that made Patrick grimace a little was the lack of a shower, as there was only a metal bathtub in the center of and pressed up against the farthest wall.

He looked around- glad that there seemed to be a sink, and a wardrobe, which he'd happily opened to find- was filled with towels.

 

Patrick turned to leave the bathroom and headed over to the door on the right, which only revealed a kind of- back entrance to the house.

There was a bench and some coat hangers on the left wooden wall, and on the farthest one- there was a white door and a large window, covered with a pair of thick curtains. Patrick stepped forwards, thinking the room was pretty deserted and idly pondering _what he could use it for_ , before he noticed a staircase that led upwards. It was nestled into the right wall, and while it was very dark- Patrick just about managed to stumble upstairs.

 

The staircase led directly into the improvised 'bedroom', and he exhaled with a grin as he saw the bed; Large and soft-looking, covered in layers of comforters, pillows, cushions and knitted blankets. Patrick glanced to his right to see a wall of glass shaped like a triangle, slotting into the roof's shape, he suspected.

He stepped forwards and looked out at the landscape, with glee rising in bubbles inside his chest.

 

Hvítserkur.

 

Just like in the picture.

 

Right there, right in front of him, and, real, and solid.

 

He could go touch it if he wanted too, it was right there, and he could hardly believe his luck.

 

Patrick moved back to the left side of the room with a lingering gaze on the rock, before he looked away to peer over the balcony, and grin down at Brendon.

The man- who had been pacing around the living room idly, suddenly looked up. He beamed, "D'you like it?"

Patrick nodded, "I'll take it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So, skál-" Brendon raised a glass of water- seeing as Patrick didn't have any alcohol in the house yet. "To your new house." Patrick laughed and knocked his own glass of water against Brendon's, and cheering back with a terrible accent. "Skál.", before taking a gulp and shaking his head.

 

"I haven't even been here for like...two hours, and-"

 

"-And you've already got a house! You're doing better than I was."

 

Patrick smiled gratefully, shrugging lightly. "That's only thanks to you though." Brendon hummed and nodded, before beaming widely. "Well, just think of me as your older brother, okay?"

 

"I've already got an older brother, and he's a dick- but okay."

 

Brendon only laughed, leaning back in the kitchen chair and streching his legs. He was about to speak, when a constant, loud tapping came from the kitchen window, and both men turned, eyes widening as they saw-

 

"Why is there a horse at my window?"

 

Brendon blinked before nodding, as realization flooded his eyes with a grimace. "...Yeeeah, _I forgot about that_..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"WHAT D'YOU MEAN IT'S A _FARM?_ "

 

"Like- a farm, animals, you get it, we have farms back home too."

 

"I-I-" Patrick shook his head with wide, bewildered eyes. "Brendon, I- I can't run a farm-"

 

"You totally can, it's super easy."

 

"Not it's not!"

 

"Dude, listen to me-" He leaned forwards, eyes serious, while trying to ignore the Icelandic horse nuzzling the window interestedly.

"It's only..." He fished the property paper from his coat pocket and Patrick watched him read with a nod. "It's only a few chickens, a few horses, like twenty-seven sheep, couple of cows-"

 

"THAT ISN'T MAKING ME FEEL BETTER."

 

"And a fishing boat! Hey, that's pretty cool!"

 

"Brendon-"

 

"Okay, listen here, Patrick." He leaned forwards again, "It's super easy-"

 

"- _Brendon_ -"

 

"Just- _shuddup_ , for a sec- okay? Just hear me out."

 

Patrick glared slightly, but begrudgingly nodded with a sigh, before slumping back down into his own chair. Brendon nodded with an assuring look in his eyes, and continued.

 

"Chickens- all you have to do is keep the pen closed and collect eggs every now and then. Horses- Literally nothing, just let 'em run around your property. Sheep- Shear 'em in summer, I'll teach you, it's not that bad. Cows- Once again, _nothing!_ You can milk 'em, if you want-"

 

Patrick glared and Brendon's thought cut off.

 

"And when something dies, you can just eat it or sell it- whatever you want."

 

Patrick chewed on his lip.

 

Shit, he loved this house, but- running a farm? How the fuck was he supposed to do that, alone?

He'd lived in Chicago his whole life- He had no experience. Oh, fuck.

 

He looked up at Brendon- and brown eyes stared back, wide and assuring. Patrick glanced out of the window, watching the horse press it's nose against the glass, making it steam up with his breath.

 

Patrick huffed in amusement.

 

A farm, huh?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Good choice, Patrick!"

 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever- here's the money, don't steal it."

 

Brendon laughed before faking being mock-insulted, "So _rude!_ " Patrick only rolled his eyes with a smile, shoving his hands into his pockets in an effort to warm them up.

He watched Brendon move back towards his rover, before turning to Patrick again, with a beaming smile.

 

"I'll come back tomorrow, bring you some books, bring you some food."

 

Patrick cocked his head, "Uhh...why?"

 

_Way to sound like an asshole, good job Patrick._

 

"Gotta make sure you don't starve, little dude." Brendon smiled softly, a more melancholy look crossing his face. "...I just... _I'm trying to do_...what I wish someone had done for me, okay?"

 

Patrick couldn't even find the right words to convey his gratefulness, before-

 

"See ya tomorrow!"

 

"S-See ya, Brendon." Patrick gave a small salute with two fingers and a soft smile. "Thank you. For everything."

 

Brendon leaned out of the car window with a grin, "No problem dude!"

 

Patrick watched him drive away, and the car had almost disappeared over a far hill, climbing up a steep road, when Patrick felt something nudge him in the back.

He turned quickly and clumsily, losing his balance and toppling to the ground. Patrick groaned, rubbing his eyes and looking up to see the culprit.

It was the same horse from the window- a rich brown colour with dark, almost _black_ hair looked down at him interestedly, moving its head down to nuzzle at the boy with huffs of curiosity.

 

Patrick resisted the urge to shove the horse away, and stood, pushing himself up with his hands, before dusting them off and gingerly stepping back over to his house.

 

The horse followed, and Patrick sped up.

 

The horse sped up, and Patrick started sprinting for dear life.

 

The horse started galloping, and Patrick just managed to duck inside and close the door, pressing his back against it.

 

Great, one of the horses was a stalker.

 

Fantastic.

 

He heard familiar tapping, and glanced over at the window.

 

Patrick groaned when he saw a white, fluffy foal tapping against the window with it's nose, peering inside inquisitively.

 

Why were all the horses detectives? Seriously, what the hell?

 

Patrick stalked off to his bedroom, grabbing his bag and opting to go unpack, instead of starting to yell at animals like a crazy person.

 

As he set his now-empty bag on the dresser, placing his last shirt into one of the drawers, everything suddenly became...apparent.

 

He was in Iceland.

 

He'd bought a house- no, _a farm_.

 

What the actual fuck was his life?

 

Patrick exhaled deeply, before picking up Waffles, the toy puffin- who had been patiently sitting on the bedside table, and moving over to the bed, pulling back the covers and crawling in- hugging the toy to his chest, and trying not to miss home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick awoke to loud knocking, but he only groaned, rolling over and burrowing himself even further into the mountain of comforters. "Jus'a few more minutes mom."

 

More knocking.

 

The redhead exhaled deeply, blinking his eyes open and squinting at the sunbeams, before he sat up in his bed, eyes still closed as he stood, and walked towards the bathroom to go brush his-

 

"AH FUCK-"

 

Patrick's hands leapt to his face, eyes shooting open- and only seeing wood.

 

He'd walked into a wall, but, shit this wasn't his room, what the hell was going on-

 

Oh yeah.

 

Iceland.

 

A farm.

 

"Patrick! You in there, dude?!"

 

Brendon Urie.

 

Patrick sighed heavily, still grimacing at his sore, reddening nose as he shouted out. "Yeah, be right down!"

He turned to the window, and all his fear, worry and anger melted away.

 

The Hvítserkur.

 

He'd done it. He'd actually gone and done it. He'd fulfilled his dream- and he was going to wake up to it every, single, day.

 

Patrick opened the door, clad in batman pyjama pants, socks, and a loose, baggy sweater. His hair was messy, and there were bags under his eyes, and the sight of the grumpy, exhausted kid made Brendon laugh as he stepped inside.

 

Patrick shuffled over to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water- as there wasn't much else to drink, and offering one to Brendon, who took it with a smile.

 

They heard tapping, and they glanced over to the kitchen window, where four horses nuzzled against the glass.

Brendon only tipped his head back in raucous laughter, "Holy shit, _they like_ you dude!"

Patrick only glared blankly, and only one, strained word escaped him.

 

"Why."

 

More of a statement, less of a question, but Brendon only huffed in amusement. "Well, you know what they say- _Horses_ are _excellent_ judges of character."

 

"Literally who."

 

Brendon rolled his eyes fondly, and laughed again, shaking his head at the- now _five_ , horses at the window. "Well, go get dressed! Your farming lessons start today!"

 

"My what?"

 

"Farming lessons, dude! You gotta know how to run this place."

 

Patrick groaned, putting down the glass of water and trudging upstairs with one last glare at the horses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Am I acceptable now?"

 

Brendon hummed in thought, "Spin."

 

"Fuck off."

 

"Such a spoilsport!" He laughed, surveying the boy's clothes: A sweater, parka, hat, gloves, black jeans, sneakers- okay so, not _ideal_ , but it was all Patrick had. "Yeah, you're good! Let's go, we'll start with the horses."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Stop laughing- it's not funny."

 

Brendon only laughed harder as he watched Patrick get poked and prodded at by a crowd of interested horses.

 

"You're like the horse king dude!" Brendon's eyes squinted shut with his unbridled laughter, "Lead 'em into war!"

 

Patrick burst out laughing at that- fuck, he couldn't help it.

A grey horse nuzzled his side and he petted its head gently, before jealous neighs rose from the others.

 

"Yo, that's favouritism! C'mon!"

 

"W-What do I do?" Patrick was getting nervous as some of the creatures started huffing and stamping their hooves into the grass.

 

"Pet 'em dude! Hurry!"

 

Patrick made small nervous sounds between gasps and yells, as he frantically started petting all the horses. Brendon's laughter only got harder and wilder, and Patrick watched him double over.

 

"Can we move on now?!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Okay, you can do this."

 

"Okay, I can do this."

 

"Yeah you can buddy."

 

Patrick crept over behind a black and white dappled chicken with a bright red comb on its head. Patrick's arms outstretched and his fingers splayed- before he lunged forwards, catching and holding the animal as it began flapping and clucking wildly. He managed to hold on and wrestle the escaped quicken back into its pen.

He dropped it onto the grass, and it ran away, head bobbing back and forth as it moved, before slowing to a stop as it instantly began clucking contently again. Patrick stared down at the pen of chickens with a satisfied smile, and he glanced up at Brendon- who was beaming proudly.

 

"Hey good job dude! I almost threw one off a cliff the first time I tried that."

 

Patrick burst into loud laughter, "Oh man, you're gonna tell me that story."

Brendon laughed too, and grinned. "Oh I will- but first: Sheep and cows."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick had never seen sheep like these before: They had horns that leant backwards behind their ears, long, thick and straight coats, and some were black and chestnut-coloured. There was a herd of- as the sheet of paper had said, _twenty-seven sheep_ , and Patrick watched them all mull around, chewing at the grass.

There were only five cows- and they were all coloured differently too; Some were chestnut, some were white, and some were pitch black- but none were classically black and white dappled, he'd come to know and expect.

 

"There are so many."

 

Brendon's face suddenly fell blank in shock. "Wait, hang on, I'll be right back!", before he darted away. Patrick furrowed his brow and watched him, feeling a slight panic sting the pit of his stomach. "Brendon?!"

 

A few minutes later, Brendon returned, and Patrick watched him walk down the rocky hill carrying a suspicious bundle of a blanket.

He strode over to Patrick before stopping in front him, straightening his back and grinning. "This-" Brendon nodded at the blanket, "-is for you!"

 

Patrick watched the blanket shift and the worst possibility came to mind.

 

 

 

"Did you steal a baby?"

 

 

 

"What? No, Patrick-" Brendon laughed and shifted so that he could see- Oh no it was cute.

 

A puppy wriggled in the blanket, asleep and kneading its paws happily. It was fluffy, had wolf-like ears, a sharp snout, a fluffy curled tail, and it's fur was a gradient of grey, red and white.

 

"It's an Icelandic sheepdog, dude!" Brendon passed the dog to Patrick- who's weak protests were completely ignored. "It'll help you round 'em up."

 

Patrick blinked.

 

"It's a _puppy_ , Brendon."

 

"...Yeah?"

 

"So, it can't really- it's not _trained_."

 

"Well, first of all ' _she_ '. Second of all- I got you a book for that." Brendon tapped a finger at his head, "See, I'm not that dumb, Patrick. Besides, it's in her blood- she's from Esmarsson's farm. Her dad was the best sheepdog in all of Reykir."

 

The puppy stirred, blinking it's black eyes open, and wagging its tail as it nuzzled into Patrick with a whine.

 

"Good company, too."

 

Patrick didn't really need anymore convincing, but he appreciated the effort.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick and Brendon pushed the wooden boat out into the water, before climbing in; Brendon leapt over the side with one hand gracefully, while Patrick toppled in by flopping down over the other side, landing with a thud and a groan. Brendon laughed, helping him up, before moving to the helm of the boat, that was neatly tucked into a small metal box, complete with a roof and clear windows.

 

He glanced over at Patrick- who's eyes were locked on the rock formation. Patrick glanced back when Brendon spoke up.

 

"Alright! Fishing time!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I don't get it."

 

Patrick shifted in his seat, fishing pole firmly in his hands. "If I'm gonna run the farm, why do I need to fish?"

Brendon breathed in the sea air and looked around. They'd driven further out, so much so that the Hvítserkur was only a tiny lump on the horizon.

"Fishing is a main export- everyone needs fish, there's a high demand."

 

"I'm not a startup fishing company, Brendon. I'm a kid who just wanted to live in Iceland, was that too much to ask?"

 

Brendon laughed at Patrick's grumble, "Look-"

 

Patrick sensed an oncoming rant and rolled his eyes lightly.

 

"Chickens don't lay as many eggs as you think."

 

"What?"

 

"It's a saying- I just mean-" Brendon exhaled, furrowing his brow and trying to figure out how to put his thoughts across to Patrick. "You need money. To eat, and stuff."

 

"Yeah...?"

 

"But, you don't really have much to sell. Like, you shouldn't start slaughtering, 'cause then you'll have no livestock, sheep can only be sheared in summer, chickens don't lay many eggs, etc. And, there's no way you're getting a job out here- everyone just hires their own family members."

 

Patrick chewed on his lip, he was right.

 

"But here- if you just work this land, and fish- you don't even have to learn the language, you can just chill out- here."

 

Brendon gestured to the beautiful view, and Patrick nodded softly, he was right again. This really was his best option.

He furrowed his brow slightly, "Wait, so- what do _you_ do?"

 

Brendon grinned proudly, straightening up and looking out at the sea. "I work on an oil rig." Patrick's eyes widened softly in surprise, and Brendon continued to explain. "I know this guy Hreidar, who has a cousin- Elia, who has a son- Marius- and well, basically, eventually, they managed to get me job. At Statoil asa."

 

Patrick nodded slowly, before asking a question- and immediately feeling pathetic. "Is it scary?"

 

But Brendon didn't laugh or make fun of him, instead, the man only nodded somberly. "Yeah, 'specially when there's a storm." Patrick smiled sympathetically, before Brendon perked up- standing and moving over to the net, which they'd cast on the other side of the boat. He tugged on it, before glancing back at Patrick. "Hey, c'mere!"

 

Patrick reeled in the fishing rod and quickly stumbled over to Brendon, awkwardly stepping over the bench in the middle of the boat.

"Okay, grab this tightly." Brendon passed Patrick a piece of the net, and the redhead obliged, lacing his fingers into the gaps tightly.

Brendon did the same on the other side, "Now, on my count- pull up, okay?"

Patrick nodded, exhaling to stifle the writhing anxiety in his stomach. "Three, two, one."

They both heaved with heavy grunts, before fully pulling the heavy net into the boat, letting it drop onto the floor.

Patrick jumped backwards, letting go of the net as he stared down with wide eyes; Trapped in the net, there were about six, writhing, jumping, greenish-yellow cod, all gaping as for air and gills puffing frantically as they suffocated.

 

Brendon gave him an empathetic smile, "I was the same, but, you get used to it." Patrick nodded shakily, but still couldn't help grimacing at the fish. Brendon stepped over the net and headed back to the helm, starting and steering the fishing boat back towards the house.

He glanced back at Patrick- who was crouching down to see them more clearly. "If it makes you feel any better, Jomar- nice guy, fisherman-"

 

Jomar the fisherman. Patrick nodded, this list was getting a little long.

 

"He told me that they can't actually feel pain...I think...They're not developed enough for it."

 

It didn't make Patrick feel any better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick yawned loudly as Brendon wrapped up the last fish, before placing it in the fridge, and closing the door. "You did good today Patrick."

The redhead smiled tiredly, huffing a laugh at the tan colored horse that poked at his window, "They really like you, I've never seen anything like that, s'crazy."

Patrick nodded with a dazed grin, "Yeah it is."

There was silence for a moment, before Patrick smiled up at Brendon gratefully. "Hey, uh- sorry, if I was...a little... _rude_ today, I just- I'm not a morning person-"

 

"Oh don't worry about it dude! I'm the same 'fore I've had coffee." Brendon snapped his fingers as his eyes blanked in realization. "I brought you a thing- hang on." Patrick watched him dart out of the house with panicked eyes.

 

"It's not another dog right?!"

 

It wasn't a dog, it was a manual, stovetop coffee maker. And Patrick had never seen anything more beautiful in his life- he hadn't had a cup of coffee since he'd left America, and he'd been _craving_.

 

"You just put the coffee in here, water in here, boil it over that, and boom- coffee!"

 

The redhead smiled and gazed at the shiny contraption lovingly. "Thank you."

Patrick wasn't sure whether the ' _thank you_ ' was towards Brendon or to the coffee maker- but Brendon took it for himself anyway.

"Hey, you're welcome dude!" He stood, making a move towards the door and Patrick followed, intent on waving him goodbye.

 

As Brendon was about to climb into his car's driver's seat, his face blanked, and he'd looked as though he'd remembered something.

 

"Y'know, 'cause of my job- I kinda... _disappear_ for a few months every now and then, are you gonna be okay?"

 

Patrick gulped a little.

 

Would he?

 

The strawberry-blonde exhaled silently- he'd have to be. It wasn't a case of ' _should he be?_ '.

 

"Yeah, I'll be fine- I've got a new dog for company, remember?"

 

Brendon's face split into a grin again, "Oh yeah! Hey, let me know when you name her!"

 

"Will do, Brendon."

 

And with that, the man climbed into his car and drove away. Patrick watched the car's lights disappear over the hill, as he stood in the cold, night air.

Before he got assaulted by one of his horses again, Patrick strode back inside, closing the door with a yawn.

He was exhausted, but he was also gross from working with animals all day- and he really needed a shower, since he smelled like livestock and fish.

 

Patrick really struggled not falling asleep in the bathtub when the warm water had enveloped him, but he'd fought sleep away with a triumph, and had promptly managed to dry himself off, and change into his familiar, soft pyjamas, before heading upstairs to his bedroom.

 

The puppy was lying on his bed, head resting on her paws and eyes closed, but as soon as Patrick entered, her head shot up and she started yipping happily.

Patrick smiled softly, moving over to scratch behind her ear. She whined happily and Patrick laughed, before his eyes flitted over to his old, stuffed toy puffin- who was sat in prime position on top of a few cushions.

 

Waffles.

 

Huh.

 

"... _What about_...Pancakes?"

 

The puppy barked with a wagging tail.

 

Huh.

 

Patrick knew it was a dumb name.

 

He knew that Brendon would make fun of it- good-naturedly, of course.

 

He knew that all the other dogs in the town probably had really cool, intimidating, traditional names...but _Pancakes_ , c'mon, it was _adorable_.

 

He could call her ' _Pan_ ' for short anyway, it wasn't _that_ bad.

 

Patrick picked up the puppy tenderly, holding her to his chest and shuffling over to the bed. He pulled the layers of comforters and blankets back before crawling into the- currently cold, bed.

He placed the puppy down next to him- who only lay down, rolled around and looked at her surroundings with wide dark eyes, and inquisitive whines. Patrick laughed softly and pulled the covers over them, hesitating for a moment, before he reached over, grabbing Waffles- Yes, he knew it was _dumb_ , but if he was truthful- He felt homesick, and the puffin always helped him sleep.

 

The puppy eventually crawled over, nuzzling into Patrick with a jealous whine. Patrick only huffed in amusement and scratched behind her ear, before letting himself relax, and fall asleep.

 

This was his life now.

 

And it wasn't too bad.

 

 

 


	2. We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

 

"So, you sure you're gonna be fine without me?"

 

Patrick nodded in earnest, trying to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the question Brendon had been asking since he'd arrived.

 

Brendon would be leaving in around half an hour for work, and he wouldn't be back for three months; He was being transferred to the Draugen oil field in Norway, and while it was only for a little while- the man was being melodramatic, and acting like he was leaving forever. Or to fight in _a war_ , or something.

Patrick smiled; _Sure_ , it felt nice having someone worry about him- but, _c'mon_ , Patrick was eighteen, he wasn't a helpless little kid. And what's the worst that could happen? He was as safe as he could be: In a little cottage, in one of the most deserted places in the world- It wasn't like he was living in a dingy, crime-infested city, with danger around every corner.

 

He moved over to the table, holding two cups of freshly-brewed coffee, and passing one to Brendon. The man nodded with a smile, taking the cup gratefully. "Takk."

Patrick smiled down into his own cup, eyes drifting over the dark, steaming drink.

 

"Verði þér að góðu."

 

Brendon's eyes widened and he grinned, "Hey, you've been learning! Good job, man!"

Patrick huffed in amusement, looking out of the window, and gazing at the blue sky, grey waves and black sand. "Well, I've gotta make an effort. Don't wanna be the ' _ignorant foreigner_ ' forever, right?"

 

Brendon hummed and nodded, before joining Patrick's gaze outside.

They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the white and pastel grey seagulls fly around in the clouds, squawking and cawing loudly.

 

"You've got a pretty good gig here." Brendon leaned back in his seat, taking a sip of his coffee. Patrick nodded with a smile, eyes still locked on the beautiful scenery. "Yeah I do."

 

"You're pretty far away from the volcanoes too, so that's good."

 

"Volcanoes?"

 

"You knew about the volcanoes, right?" Brendon furrowed his brow with curious eyes and a half-smile, but Patrick only nodded weakly. "Well, _yeah_ , but- Are there volcanoes...around... _here?_ "

Brendon laughed, head tipping back a little, " _Oh_ _yeah_ \- When they erupt, the town just gets like- _swamped_ in ash- everyone has to leave, people like go to...the...coast...or...families-"

Brendon trailed off at Patrick's blank, terrified, expression. "I mean- uh...You'll probably be fine down here."

Patrick could only nod shakily with wide eyes, before a loud, harsh knock at the door made them both jump.

 

"What-? I thought there was nobody around for-"

 

"I don't think it's like a- ' _Welcome wagon_ ', dude- it might be...oh, just go open it- Oh fuck, I think I know who it is."

 

Patrick glanced at Brendon nervously as another harsh knock rang through the house. Patrick stood, fingers gripping the white cup of coffee tightly as he ignored the burn on his slender fingers, and moved over to the front door.

He opened it, peeking outside to see a stone-faced man with greying, ginger hair and sharp blue eyes; He looked somewhat like a farmer too, and Patrick went to turn to Brendon to ask him to translate when-

 

"Ertu nýr útlendingur?"

 

Okay.

 

Patrick had been studying the book Skefill had given him for two weeks now.

 

Ertu: That meant...' _Are you_ '. He was pretty sure about that one.

 

Nýr: That was definitely ' _New_ '. Okay, two out of three- He was doing great.

 

...But he hadn't heard ' _Útlendingur_ ' before, but by the harsh spitting tone of the man's voice- he assumed it wasn't good.

 

He blinked for a moment, mouth slack under the man's unamused, thundering gaze.

 

"...H-Hvað?"

 

The man scoffed, and Patrick shrunk back- praying his accent hadn't been _that_ bad, but Brendon was by his side in a second, and his presence instantly reassured him.

 

"Hæ, Holm."

 

The man's eyes narrowed into a weak glare at Brendon's appearance, but he straightened up and greeted him with a nod anyway.

Brendon blinked slowly, and Patrick noticed something akin to anger behind his eyes. The man at the door twisted his face into some sort of- _obviously fake_ , cheeriness, and it made Brendon speak again, but not without a soft glower.

 

"Hvað þurfti þú?"

 

"Ég vildi bara vita sem keypti Hindisvik."

 

Brendon's expression became smug at that, and he smiled sarcastically, patting a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Það væri vinur minn."

 

The man's face dropped into a stern, blank canvas, and he swallowed thickly, eyes flickering with something that looked like disgust. He held out a hand to Patrick, and the strawberry-blonde took it, shaking with a strained, yet polite, smile, whilst his tongue struggled to form tricky, foreign words.

 

"M-Mitt _nafn_ e-er _Patrick_. _Gaman_ a-að h-hitta... _þig_."

 

The man visibly tensed, but smiled tightly again- although his eyes betrayed his mouth, "Gott að hitta þig líka, ég er Holm."

 

Patrick only understood about half of the sentence, but he nodded with a convincing noise of fake understanding, before pulling his hands back around his cup, warming them and trying not to shudder at the cold air that had rushed into the house.

Things were quiet for a few moments, making Patrick awkwardly shift his gaze and shuffle his shoes, before Brendon stepped in again.

 

"Er þetta allt?"

 

The man- who had been peering at the house with interest, visibly bristled, but nodded. "Já, ég var bara... _forvitinn_...um nýja útlendinginn."

Patrick didn't understand much of _that_ sentence either, but Brendon exhaled deeply, smiling fakely again.

 

"Bless, Holm."

 

The man's gaze shifted over the house again- something like jealousy, or maybe even _envy_ , taking a firm root in his light eyes. He shifted his stare back to Brendon, then moved it to Patrick- slowly surveying and analyzing, before nodding and stepping away, with two final strained words. "Kæru strákar."

 

They watched him leave, and when he was out of sight, Patrick turned to Brendon- furrowed brow, eyes squinted and head shaking lightly, all in confusion.

Brendon only glanced at Patrick with a stuttered exhale, before shaking his head and shutting the door, moving to drop back into his chair. He gazed out of the window with lazy eyes, and spoke with a grunt.

 

"That was Holm. Lighthouse guy. Over the hill, past the sheep."

 

Holm the Lighthouse guy- Damn, this list was getting out of control.

Patrick tilted his head a little and furrowed his brow, "...And, I'm guessing...you don't like him?"

 

"If by _don't like him_ , you mean he's a _major dick_ \- then _no_ , _no I don't_."

The man took a gulp of his coffee, eyes still narrowed into a glare, and Patrick gingerly stepped over to the table, retaking his seat.

 

"...So, uh...what does- He, he said this _word_ \- Uh... _shoot_ \- I think it was like, ' _Utlen_ '- something-"

 

"Útlendingur- It means foreigner."

 

Patrick blinked in surprise.

He wouldn't be offended by the use of the word- he _was_ a foreigner, after all, but, Holm's tone had been pretty sharp and insulting in itself.

He glanced up, watching Brendon's pissed glare at nothing in particular. Patrick smiled softly, trying to look assuring. "Hey, don't worry about it. It doesn't bother me."

Brendon glanced up with a softened expression, and sighed, nodding with a shrug. "He calls me that too, so you're not the only one, I guess."

 

Patrick chewed his lip in thought for a moment, before glancing up at Brendon. "He looked a little- Why was he... _mad?_ " Brendon laughed, finally looking happy again- despite the smugness behind his smile. "That cheapskate's been telling everyone he was gonna buy Hindisvik for _years_ \- I'm guessing he's pissed 'cause you beat him to the punch."

Patrick nodded, worrying his lip with his teeth. Shit, he hoped that guy didn't try to like- _sabotage him_ , or anything. Maybe steal his sheep, or- fuck, that would be awful. He made a note to take some precautions- maybe _numbering_ them...

Brendon's eyes suddenly lit up again. "Hey, have you been reading the books I brought you?"

Patrick nodded again, smile broadening into a grin. "Yeah, I have- Apparently Icelandic sheepdogs are like- _really smart_ , so I started training Pan-"

 

"I still can't believe you called her _Pancakes_."

 

Patrick's voice was only a small whine.

 

"...What's wrong with-"

 

"No, no! It's adorable, don't get me wrong."

 

Patrick huffed and rolled his eyes at Brendon's laugh, but continued. "Yeah, I've been reading them all."

 

"...Even the knitting ones?"

 

Patrick sighed.

 

"Yes, even the knitting ones."

 

" _Aw_ , _dude!_ Make me a hat-!"

 

"Shut. Up."

 

There was silence for a beat before they both dissolved into laughter, Brendon's eyes squeezed shut before he wiped them. "Ah, I'm gonna miss you dude."

Patrick's laughter faded into silent hiccups and he nodded with a smile, "I'll miss you too, Brendon."

 

They heard tapping at the window, and looked over, both bursting into light hearted laughter again, as they watched a black horse tap at the window with it's nose.

 

Patrick was really going to miss Brendon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was his first day alone.

No Brendon to come knock at his door today- He was independent for the first time ever.

 

Patrick shoved the layers of comforters away and got out of bed, settling his feet on the cold wooden floor. He stretched his arms up above his head and yawned, groaning as a few joints popped with satisfying sounds. He heard whining and instantly dropped his arms, shifting to look behind him.

 

Pancakes writhed around sleepily in a blanket, cuddled up against Waffles the Puffin, whilst yawning and pawing at her eyes.

Patrick smiled, he was _so grateful_ for the company, he'd probably go insane here by himself.

The strawberry-blonde decided to let her sleep a little while longer, so he stood, walked over to the dresser, and got dressed; A t-shirt, a black and white knitted sweater- courtesy of Thury, black jeans, and rubber boots that came up to his knees- all while staring out at the proud rock formation through the clear window.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick shoved a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, chewing quietly whilst looking out at the view through the kitchen window.

 

Oatmeal was weird.

 

In truth he was used to eating sugary cereals packed with artificial colours and flavors, but Brendon had brought him three, huge straw sacks of dry oats, with the claim that- ' _It gives you energy for the whole day, and it doesn't even go bad, dude!_ '

 

Patrick heard a whine and looked down to see his dog; She was sat on the floor by his chair, and looked up at him with wide, begging eyes, sniffing the air at the enticing smell of food.

 

"You just had a whole can of tuna- don't even start."

 

Pancakes seemed to understand him somehow, and whined softly, before stepping over to lie under the table, and curling up at his feet. Patrick huffed with a smile, and ate the last spoonful of the oats, sniffing with his slightly blocked nose; Since he'd arrived, he felt a constant chill in his bones. It didn't matter how many mountains of blankets and comforters he buried himself in, or it didn't matter how many layers of thick sweaters and wool socks he wore- he was always _just a little bit cold_.

 

He sighed, pulling the collar of his warm knitted, black and white, nordic-patterned sweater- that Thury had, _very kindly_ , made for him. He tugged it over his nose and nuzzled into the wool, breathing in and out steadily.

She'd also sent him a hat, a scarf, gloves and a pair of earmuffs- the latter which Brendon insisted he'd need. Patrick wasn't too convinced, but they were nestled into his smaller, travelling rucksack anyway.

Patrick smiled out at the Hvítserkur one last time, before scraping his chair back along the wooden floor, shifting his feet away from Pancakes- being very careful not to hurt her, and standing.

The strawberry-blonde moved over to the sink, and calmly scrubbed at the dirty bowl with icy water that made his hands turn red, and ache to the bone.

 

Patrick's head snapped up at familiar tapping, and he exhaled heavily at two horses- both fluffy and cream coloured, nuzzling at the kitchen window. Pancakes leapt up, barking at them whilst keeping her eyes locked on the glass, almost warning them to stay away.

Patrick laughed quietly, and shook his head, before sighing as he dried the bowl, and thought about the long day ahead of him.

 

Well, better to get started, he supposed.

Horses first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pancakes trudged alongside Patrick, whining every time she ran into a tall patch of grass- before feverently attacking the blades with tentative bites and swipes from her paws. She'd get held up by the offending plants often, and Patrick would have to whistle for her- before she bounded up to his side with a yip and a wagging tail.

 

Patrick counted the horses: three chestnuts, one black, five white, two cream, one grey, one brown- Good, they were all there. He wouldn't have to chase down any rouges today.

 

Pancakes was bouncing around one of the older, extremely disinterested white horses- who opted to keep chewing on the patchy, green grass, and bat the dog away with a flick of his tail every now and then.

The puppy would only grow more determined every time she was flicked away, but before she decided to bite the horse and said horse promptly kicked her over the cliff- Patrick jogged over, swooped Pancakes up into his arms and trudged over the rocky hill.

 

Sheep and cows next- he could do this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Twenty-six-" He moved over to another one, finally clapping a hand on the last sheep. "Twenty-seven."

Patrick grinned proudly; No sheep had escaped either- and the five cows were very contentedly munching on the grass too.

The strawberry-blonde turned for a moment, suddenly noticing the lack of barks and whines at his side. He squinted up to the rocky hill, finding the sheepdog puppy sat there, proud and tall; She looked concentrated, focused and...like an adult, actually.

Patrick wondered if seeing the sheep had triggered her instincts or something, he hoped he was right- if he was, he wouldn't have to train her too much after all.

 

"Hey, c'mere girl! C'mere Pan!" Patrick hunched over and patted his thighs, and suddenly the serious dog was a joyful puppy again; She bolted over, barking and panting with a flopping tongue the whole way, before jumping up on Patrick's legs with a wagging tail that thumped against his shin.

Patrick laughed, and leaned down to scratch behind her ear, "I hope you don't get seasick."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pancakes barked happily, tongue lolling out of her mouth, and she looked as thought she were actually smiling. Her ears pricked up at the sound of the waves and at the cries of the seagulls, and she stared out over the sea with a wagging tail.

 

Patrick was hunched over, head in his hands and groaning at the dizzy rocking of the boat.

 

This was the first time he'd gotten seasick, and it was also the first time he'd been fishing without Brendon- He idly wondered if the two correlated for some reason, when his thoughts were cut short, as he felt a wet nose nuzzling into his shoulder, shuffling against the plastic-like fabric of his parka.

 

Patrick huffed a laugh and looked up to his side, cracking an eye open to see Pancakes nuzzling against him. "I'm sorry I'm a wimp, Pan."

She barked happily before whining and shuffling her head into Patrick's hand.

 

He laughed fully, leaning back and petting her head, before standing, and moving over to the large, black fishing net that sat in the corner of the boat- next to the large, metal bucket, that was there just in case he ever needed to throw up.

Patrick moved to the left side of the boat, hoisted the net up, wrapped the string around his hand and threw it out over the water, watching it sink down. He tied the string to a small metal latch, before moving over to pick up his fishing rod. He baited it, before casting it over the other, free edge of the boat.

Patrick secured the pole to another metal latch on the right side of the boat, before sat down on the bench in the center, pulled his rucksack towards him and rooted around for a second. He retrieved and pulled on the hat, scarf and gloves Thury had made him, before fishing out the Icelandic beginner's book that Skefill had given him.

 

The hat, scarf and gloves, because Brendon had been right- It was really cold and he needed to cover himself to stop his fingers and ears from falling off.

 

And the book because...he'd felt a little self-conscious about speaking since his run in with Holm that morning, and he was determined to improve. He really wanted to speak as well as Brendon could- and rub it in Holm's _stupid face_.

Patrick grinned for a second, imagining the man's face of shock as the boy spoke his language fluidly- of course, it would take a lot of work, and a lot of time. But thankfully, he had mounds of both determination, and, free time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"H-Hvar er bókasa- bókasafnið...?"

 

Patrick stuttered out the string of words, before looking up at Pancakes- who was sat neatly beside him on the bench, listening intently with pricked up ears and wide eyes.

 

"Was that good?"

 

Pancakes barked happily, her tail thumping against the wooden bench.

Patrick laughed softly, petting her head, before burying his face back in the thick book, eyes scanning the pages.

 

"Hv-Hvernig, he-hefur-" He looked up at Pancakes, watching for approval and receiving it when she yipped quietly. "-þú það í d-dag...?"

 

Another happy bark, and Patrick looked up at the puppy through squinted eyes.

 

 

"Are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

 

 

Pancakes whined and barked again, hopping forwards to lie down, and cuddle into Patrick's side, tail wrapping around her legs.

Patrick could only laugh softly, and lean back, book falling down into his lap while he started looking out at the view.

 

The day was cold and clear, the skies were duck egg blue, and were pebbled with balls of grey and white clouds.

The seas were mostly grey, but the waves were tinged with teal, and the color almost _glowed_ under the water. White foam danced on their edges, shifting every time they moved back and forth over the pitch black sand, and every time they drifted over the huge, smooth rocks on the coast- that was edged with green, sandy hills, steep, sharp cliff faces and dark, mysterious caverns.

And behind it all- huge, grey, white-tipped mountains sat proudly, like the backdrop of the entire scene.

Patrick glanced up to the rock formation he'd moved here for, smiling at it like a dear old friend.

 

Patrick jolted suddenly- And both him and Pancakes fell to the floor with two loud respective yelps.

He tried to steady himself, hands on the wooden base before the boat jolted, and he crashed down again. Patrick looked up at Pancakes, and she was apparently smarter than he was, and knew exactly what to do, for some reason; She was pressed against the floor, completely quiet with wide, focused eyes, and paws splayed out on the wood as she breathed silently.

Patrick furrowed his brow, before crashing into the right wall of the boat with a loud grunt. Pancakes stirred a little, looking distressed as Patrick gripped the side of his head, before wrapping a hand around the edge of the boat.

 

The thud came again- but it was weaker this time...And it felt like...

 

It felt like it was coming from under the boat.

 

Something was stuck.

 

And whatever it was- it must be big.

 

Patrick shuffled over to the fishing pole first, unhooking it and reeling in the line with ease. Huh, nothing on the hook...Maybe the net-

 

"AGH, FUCK-"

 

Patrick's forehead butted into the metal edge, and he felt his vision double for a second. He exhaled shakily, glancing at the other side of the boat with a furrowed brow, determined eyes, and a stony expression.

 

In a moment of animalistic survival instinct, he scurried over the bench on all fours, before dropping on the other side and holding himself up on hands and knees.

He heard whining and his head flicked over to see Pancakes commando crawling towards him, stopping at the end of the bench and barking in panic, with a scared whine.

 

Patrick felt another thump- stronger, and... _more desperate_ , this time.

 

He narrowed his eyes, before leaning up to the net on his knees, and trying to tug it- _Oh fuck_ it was _heavy_.

He half a mind to just cut it loose- but it was the only net he had, and without it, he couldn't catch or sell enough fish to support himself until Brendon came home to give him another.

And he couldn't go _buy one_ either- He couldn't even get to town, he'd have to ride a fucking horse-

 

Another vicious jolt.

 

Patrick's arms trembled under the weight, and he legitimately felt like a noodle- he couldn't _fucking_ \- _shit_.

 

With a heavy exhale, Patrick wrapped the string around his hands, before standing with a hunched back, and hooking it over his shoulder. He turned, and pulled as hard as he could, as he stepped over to the other side of the boat. He clambered over the bench, being careful not to lose his balance, before stepping down onto the wooden floor again.

He heaved and grunted, and finally- he reached the metal edge. Patrick glanced back with a furrowed brow and a stony expression, but they only became wide eyes, and a gaping mouth.

 

The net was barely hanging off the edge of the boat, but inside it-

 

There was a long, skinny scaled tail, writhing, and poking out of a gigantic pile of fluttering fish.

 

It was a shark- it had to be.

 

O-Or maybe a dolphin, or something.

 

Or, maybe just a _monstrously huge fish_.

 

_Holy shit_ \- he could sell it for a small fortune.

 

Well...maybe not a _fortune_ , but for a good amount of money, and while he wasn't greedy- he _desperately_ needed a rainy day fund.

 

But...He'd have to _kill_ -

 

Patrick exhaled sharply, furrowing his brow and stoning his gaze again.

 

 

Time to be a man.

 

 

He growled and shifted his fingers up further into the net, pulling back, before repeating the move again and again- eyes narrowed and teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

This fucking thing had almost capsized the boat, he was allowed to be a little mad, _okay?_

 

One final, sharp tug- and the net thudded into the boat, spilling silvery and yellowed-green fish all over the floor. They started jolting as they suffocated, making Patrick's ears ring with thundering, quick and sharp pats.

 

He could still see the end of the tail, but most of the creature was hidden by the bench. He still didn't know what it was, but Patrick moved to grab a weapon, anything he could use to beat this thing to death if it tried to attack him.

His hand stretched out to a metal wrench- that was _really supposed_ to be used maintenance. His pale fingers inched close enough to wrap around the cold metal, and he exhaled sharply and deeply, puffing out his cheeks.

Patrick clasped the impromptu weapon in both hands, and moved slowly, stepping gingerly as he tried not to crush any of the fish when-

 

He dropped the wrench, hands shooting over his ears and yelling out in pain.

 

It was a screech- inhuman and piercing.

 

He'd never heard anything like it but, if he'd had to describe it- it'd be something between...a cat...or a fox, o-or maybe a _bat_...?

 

It came again and Patrick's hands only tightened around his ears- they felt hot, itchy and achy.

 

Patrick managed to look up for long enough to see Pancakes sprinting towards him, moving to cower behind him, with her tail between her legs, and giving out shaky whines.

 

Patrick exhaled deeply, his heart was thundering against his ribs, his whole body felt frozen and tense- and _his fucking ears_ hurt _so fucking much_ , he had to-

 

Wait.

 

Earmuffs- _Oh thank god_.

 

Patrick stumbled over to his bag, crashing to his knees and grimacing with pained yells as the screeches kept coming, getting louder and more frenzied with each one. He tugged out the earmuffs and clasped them over his ears in one desperate, frantic move.

Patrick crawled back over to the trembling puppy, quickly petting her head to calm her, before grabbing his wrench with his right hand, and standing as he turned to glare at the tail.

 

Whatever this thing was- It was gonna _die_.

 

Patrick hunched his shoulders and strode across the boat, struggling not to slip on the floor, due to it covered with fish oil. He shuffled past the bench, and raised the wrench high above his head, arm tensed, and strong, teeth bared in a snarl-

 

 

 

"O-Oh my god-"

 

 

 

Patrick's face dropped in an instant and he collapsed backwards, falling backwards and wrench clattering out of his hand- knees bent, feet on the floor, hands at his sides, leaned up, mouth open and eyes the size of plates.

 

 

It was a mermaid.

 

 

No.

 

No.

 

It wasn't real.

 

It couldn't be-

 

Another screech rang out as the tail flipped out, landing on the wood again with a crack.

 

Patrick exhaled deeply and shakily- eyes still impossibly wide, and mouth gaping with a shaky lip. The earmuffs worked surprisingly well, and the sounds didn't make his ears hurt anymore- he was grateful, they were unlike anything he'd ever heard, and they were _really fucking haunting_.

 

Still not entirely believing his own eyes, Patrick stood on shaky knees, staring down at the... _the monster_ , at his feet, just about a meter away.

 

His chest heaved as he panted, and, trying to stifle the fearful writhing in his stomach- he leant down, swiping the wrench from the ground, and gingerly stepping forwards, making sure he was out of the tail's range, as he ran over to the right side of the boat. He leaned up over the bench, and leaned over, looking down.

 

Tangled in a mess of the black net, and surrounded by- and lying in a bed of silvery, and yellow-green- _now dead_ , fish, was the... _the thing_.

 

Patrick didn't know what to call it.

 

A mermaid?

 

Jesus Christ, the _ONE_ time he went fishing with Brendon- And he caught a fucking _mermaid?_

 

Well, if it was a mermaid- It didn't fucking look like one. It didn't look anything like fucking Ariel- no, it was _terrifying_.

 

Almost translucent, grey-cream toned skin- smattered all over in silvery scales, and clearing showing off every bone, vein, and- _faintly_ , even every _organ_ beneath.

It's hands were pruned, and all the bones were visible as they shifted and writhed under _almost-transparent_ skin.

It was also covered in clear fins- on his arms, knees, neck, jaw- right down to it's hips.

It had dark hair that fell over it's face in messy, soaked, and _a little long_ \- strands.

It's eyes were pitch black, and it's bared teeth were sharp and jagged- it looked like exactly like a shark's mouth, with endless rows and sets of teeth.

It's ears were pointed, a little, and it's nose was pressed close to it's face- and there were no nostrils, only flat skin.

He also noticed that the whole thing was covered with cuts, and was bleeding... _blue_ \- Ugh, _gross_.

 

...But...had Patrick's net done that?

 

Patrick's eyes shifted from the top half, down to the- to the... _tail_.

 

It was long, and slender, and split off into two, long fins, made of clear cartiliage. The scales there were more concentrated there- covering every inch of the appendage, until they started thinning out as they moved to the top half. It also had gills-

 

Shit.

 

Its gills.

 

They were puffing out desperately, but the thing's... _face_ , had fallen blank. It's eyes wide and... _glassy_...? He couldn't really tell, but they looked dull.

It wasn't screeching anymore, and it only stared up at the sky with a blank expression.

Patrick glanced around at the masses of dead fish all over the boat's floor, and it kicked in.

 

 

 

This thing was going to die.

 

 

 

He couldn't explain what he did next.

 

Patrick moved from the bench.

 

He should have tossed it back in the water.

 

Patrick grabbed the large metal bucket.

 

He should have hit it over the head until it died.

 

Patrick leaned over the side of the boat, filling the bucket with saltwater.

 

He shouldn't have-

 

Patrick tossed the water over the creature, and it burst back to life again, gills spluttering and entire body flipping and writhing- just like the fish had, only a few moments ago.

 

Patrick scooped up more water as the screeches rang again, before throwing more water over the thing- watching for a moment as it turned on it's side and tried to lean up on it's arms.

Patrick gave a loud, squeaky yelp- the same way you would if a spider you were trying to squish started crawling away, and he stumbled back again. He just managed to stay on his feet, back leaning against the small, metal wall that hid the helm, and he watched the thing move with wide eyes.

 

Patrick had half expected it to try and crawl back into the sea- but it didn't.

 

It leaned up on it's hands, and turned it's head- staring Patrick right in the eye.

It flinched and shifted away with a jolt, before straightening it's _eerily visible_ spine, and baring it's terrifying masses of teeth- infinite rows of sharp, jagged, white shark-teeth.

 

It hissed like a cat, shoulders- which Patrick had just noticed were covered in _spines_ that poked out through it's skin, falling all across it's shoulder blades. It hunched up as it watched the human catiously.

 

Patrick stared back, before his eyes shifted to the gills again; They were puffing labourously, and at frantic speeds.

 

It was suffocating, and Patrick had to do something. Even if this thing was just a weird animal, or just a- _a monster_ \- he wasn't so cold hearted as to just let it die.

 

As soon as he moved, the thing gave a short, sharp screech, and tried to pull itself away.

It had managed to lean up over the edge of the boat, and had looked down into the water with wide, fearful eyes- before Patrick had tossed another bucketful seawater over it again.

 

The creature flinched, but it's gills calmed for a second- before speeding up again. Patrick and the creature both yelped as another thud shook the boat, and the strawberry-blonde decided he _was not_ going to stick around to find out what it was.

 

"JUS- JUST HOLD YOUR BREATH."

 

Patrick yelled as the thuds drowned out his inside voice. He wasn't sure if the thing could understand him, but his mind was too frazzled to even consider that right now.

He glanced at Pancakes- who was still trembling in the corner, before running over to the helm, knuckles going white as his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, pressing down on the pedal, and speeding the boat back to shore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another bucketful of water, another indignant screech.

 

Patrick grabbed his dog and set it on the sand, letting it climb up the rocky steps to their house, before moving over to the monster.

He was nervous to touch it, and he didn't want to risk getting bitten by those downright _horrifying_ teeth, so he simply tossed another bucket of water over it- hoping it would give him time to think.

 

Patrick's eyes widened softly.

 

The sack of oats.

 

Bless you, Brendon Urie.

 

He bolted up the natural, rocky stairs to his house, speeding inside, while ignoring the horses that chased him. He ran with thundering footfalls, and crashing into the empty, back room, grabbing the sack of oats that sat on the floor at the end of the bench. He piched both lower ends and pulled it into the air, watching all the dry oats spill out onto the floor, with a cloud of their own dust.

Patrick whined slightly as he ran out of the house again, he'd have to clean that up later and it would _not_ be fun.

 

He leapt down the last three steps, landing on his hands and knees with a grunt, before his legs started forwards and he bolted back towards the boat. He jumped over the edge with both hands, and landed with a stumble and a thud.

 

Patrick stood up straight, panting, and he saw that the creature eye's were wide in...something like... _fear_ \- before it's face contorted into a snarling hiss.

The human breathed heavily, holding the bag open in both hands as he moved forwards, taking slow, steady steps.

He was so fucking scared, but he had to be strong. He had to-

 

The thing scrambled backwards suddenly, hands scrabbling at the wood as it let out short, terrified, _yet trying to be intimidating_ , screeches.

 

Patrick froze for a second, either foot at the sides of the thing's sharp hips.

 

Why was it...?

 

No it couldn't be-

 

Was it... _scared_...?

 

Patrick wasn't the scary one here- that _THING_ _was_.

 

The blonde exhaled, brow furrowing and eyes narrowing into a glower. With bared teeth and a noise between a yell and a growl, he surged forwards- hooking the sack around the thing's head.

 

It screeched and writhed, hands scrambling at the hem of the bag as Patrick pulled it's drawstrings tight, making sure it wouldn't come loose- with a sharp tug.

The thing flipped and writhed, struggling against the bag as it's gills puffed frantically.

 

Patrick threw another bucket of water over it, while he wondered how to approach the next problem.

 

 

The tail.

 

 

A: It looked strong, and he knew for a _fact_ , that a whack from a tail like that would probably break his ribs.

 

B: If anyone saw it, what would they say? If people-

 

Well, it'd just look like he was dragging a body- _shit, he should probably cover the top half too_.

 

Patrick looked around desperately, before-

 

Tarp.

 

_Perfect._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He dragged the bulky, tarp-wrapped monster up the rocky stairs- head first, of course; These rocks would probably kill it if it's head dragged along them.

Patrick panted, feeling sweat bead on his forehead, before glancing down over the side of the bulk, craning his head to see the long, wrapped tail dragging up the rocky stairs.

It was ridiculously, and- _just, unnecessarily, long_ \- must have been just under _two whole meters_ long, it was more than half of the creature's body.

 

Patrick heard Pancakes barking and he looked up over his shoulder, seeing her bark down at him, before looking behind her with a whine.

 

Oh no.

 

Oh fuck-

 

 

"Góðan daginn, Patrick!"

 

 

It was Skefill and Thury. Oh fuck- this was the last thing he needed right now.

 

Brendon had warned him the two might pay him a visit- just to see how he was getting along alone, and while he'd been remarkably touched and grateful yesterday- He was kinda pissed right now.

 

"G-Góðan da-daginn." Patrick struggled- between remembering the foreign words, between shifting his tongue unnaturally to pronounce them, and between dragging _tHIS FUCKING MONSTER UP A CLIFF_.

 

"Do you need any help there?" Skefill shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down curiously.

 

Patrick only stared up, mouth open in a gape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"This is very...uh-" Skefill groaned, shifting again to carry the bulk. " _Þ-Þungur_ \- what's the word-?"

 

"Heavy?"

 

"Yes! Exactly, heavy- _Very heavy_."

 

Patrick grunted, awkwardly stepped backwards through the hallway and dropping one arm to fumble the bathroom door open.

 

Thankfully, the tarp was so big that the thing could hardly be felt under the many layers, and Skefill and Thury had no idea about the horrible secret that lay beneath.

 

However, Skefill _had_ insisted on helping him carry the bulk, whereas Thury had picked up the traumatized Pancakes and had carried her inside.

 

"So, _a fish_ , you said?"

 

Skefill inquired with raised eyebrows as they stumbled into the bathroom, thumping the thing on the floor. Patrick heard quiet, hissing- like a tortoise's, and quickly shepherded Skefill from the bathroom, with a fake grin and awkward laugh, slamming the door behind them.

 

"Y-Yeah, a- a fish, actually!"

 

 

Skefill looked dubious.

 

 

"L-Like a _huge_ one- like, I think- a- a cat- _catfish_ , or _something?_ "

 

"Uh-huh, a catfish."

 

Thury smiled at them from where she stood in the kitchen, and Skefill walked over to stand by her, "Well, we only wanted to check you were doing well."

 

"Oh, I-I am, I r-really am."

 

Totally just didn't catch a freak of nature.

 

"Well," Skefill smiled at him kindly, "We have to go and see Holm about a few matters, but we'll check on you when we come back past- is that okay?"

 

Patrick nodded quickly and frantically with wide eyes- not wanting to raise suspicion, but probably causing a lot more than just staying silent would have.

 

The couple glanced at each other for a second, before smiling tightly. "Well, goodbye Patrick." Patrick took the hint and went to open the door, smiling nervously at them both. Skefill strode out with a small smile and a nod, but Thury took a moment to smile kindly and pat his cheek.

 

"Sjáumst seinna, elskan. Gæta þess"

 

Patrick gave a strained smile, along with an quick wave, while perhaps sounding a little _too_ enthusiastic and cheery. "Bl-Bless í bili!"

But the woman said nothing about the dubious tone, and Thury only nodded softly with a smile, and left- joining her husband who was waiting for her by the gate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick closed the door, and moved to go to the bathroom before-

 

He needed a weapon.

 

That thing had really scary teeth, and he wasn't going to risk it.

 

Patrick moved to the kitchen, rooting around desperately while Pancakes watched him with a cocked head from the couch.

 

A knife!- Shit, no...He didn't want to _kill it_.

 

Maybe...A rolling pin...?

 

His ears twitched under the earmuffs, and his head flicked up at an angry screech that shook the whole house.

 

 

Patrick grabbed the knife.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As soon as he opened the tarp, and pulled the sack away- the creature had started hissing and screeching furiously, while the writhing, and flopping against the floor- leaving streaks of blue blood all over the grey, slate tiles. Patrick checked the earmuffs were secured around his ears, when everything went silent.

 

Patrick looked down at the thing, panicking that it had finally died- but no, it was still alive, and it- it _stared_.

 

It's black eyes were... _afraid_. And it was trembling a little, while still trying to bear its teeth.

 

Patrick didn't think he himself was that intimidating, but-

 

Wait.

 

It wasn't staring at Patrick.

 

It was staring at the knife.

 

Patrick glanced between the blade and the creature, before carefully crouching down and putting the knife on the floor with a soft click. How did this thing know what a knife was?

He held out his hands and straightened up again, eyes wide and nervous. He gulped as the thing relaxed a little, but jumped as it screeched again, gills puffing frantically.

 

Patrick froze, hands clasped over his earmuffs and face contorted into a sharp grimace, before his eyes widened, and he sprang into action.

He ran over to the bathtub, skidding to a stop and crashing into it, thudding down onto his knees. He pulled himself up, and reached a shaky, gloved hand over as he turned the taps on as far as they went.

Then he moved back to the monster, stepping over to stand by its head, and grimacing at the furious screeches it made as he hooked his arms under the monster's, pulling it up so it's back was flush with his chest.

 

Patrick hunched, and took awkward, slow side steps towards the bathtub, before heaving the creature in and dropping it into the water with a loud splash, and a large stumble backwards.

 

Patrick toppled back onto the floor, staring forwards with wide eyes.

 

The monster's hissing calmed, and it flicked it's tail- that mostly hung out of the tub, and was curled on the floor in a coil, languidly. Before it dropped it's lower half, submerging itself in the water.

Patrick stood and gingerly stepped forwards, retaking the knife in his hand as spikes of fear coursed through his system. He hovered over the water, eyes widening a fraction.

 

It's eyes were closed, and its gilling were puffing calmly. It's hair drifted around it's face, and it looked... _peaceful_.

 

 

Then it's eyes burst open.

 

 

It lurched up with a screech and a thundering splash of water- tail cracking like a whip as it's pruned hands grasped the sides of the metal bathtub.

Patrick stumbled back with a scream, crashing into the furthest stone wall, and panting heavily with quiet whimpers.

 

It's many rows of teeth were bared and dripping hair splayed all over it's face, the spines on it's shoulders bristled, standing sharply on end- and all of the horror was topped off with purely, _black_ eyes, narrowed in fury.

 

It's stare moved to the knife.

 

Patrick tossed the blade to the side instantly, eyes wide and afraid.

 

They stayed like that for a few moments, before the monster dropped back down into the water, but keeping it's eyes above the surface- watching the human's every move with a glare.

 

Patrick shifted to lean his back against the wall, panting, and breathing deeply, to fend off- both a panic, and an asthma attack.

 

More silence filled the room, and the gaze was unwavering.

 

"W-What are you?"

 

Patrick stuttered, feeling tears brimming his eyes. "What the fuck are you?" He panted, a desperate sob escaping his lips. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"

 

The thing only screeched angrily and loudly in response, fully raising it's head from the water, tail flicking up and writhing in irritation.

 

Patrick wiped his eyes on his sleeve, exhaling shakily and puffing out his cheeks. He had to calm down, this thing probably couldn't even understand him- It might kinda... _look_ , somewhat _human_ , but it was probably just an animal. Sure, a really scary animal, that shouldn't fucking exist- but still, _just an animal_.

 

Patrick stepped forwards to close the taps- watching the creature sit up fully in response, mouth contorting into a silent hiss, just like a tiger's would.

 

The blonde exhaled, eyes locked on the monster as he backed away with tentative footsteps. As he pressed his back against the door, his eyes locked on the creature fully; It's hands were clasped around one edge of the bathtub, and it's eyes peeked at him from the metal barrier- watching him curiously with wide eyes, tail still coiled on the floor, only writhing slightly- like a snake.

 

 

Patrick's eyes flitted to the knife on the floor.

 

 

He couldn't just _leave it_ there, what if the monster got hold of it?

In a split second decision, he shot down to pick it up, and recieved a quiet, warning hiss from the bristling creature. Patrick glared, watching the spines on the creature's back stand on end, and shake in rage- only making Patrick's hand tighten around the blade handle.

 

This fucking _thing_ wasn't going to intimidate him.

 

His powdery eyes narrowed in rage, and he held the knife as though he were going to strike, baring his teeth at the monster.

 

It only hissed back.

 

Patrick suddenly felt like an idiot- Once again, this thing was an _animal_ , it couldn't understand complexity.

 

It probably only understood food, sex, and death- just like _all_ animals do.

 

Patrick turned with one, last glance at the monster, he went to move out of the bathroom, before a voice rang in his ears.

 

 

His eyes shot wide, his jaw fell slack, and the knife clattered to the floor, as his hand went limp.

 

 

Th- The voice.

 

 

It was h-his voice.

 

 

It was Patrick's voice, coming from something that _wasn't_... _Patrick_.

 

 

It was Patrick's voice coming from _behind him_.

 

 

 

 

"What are you?"

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Interview With A Mermaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do any of you guys ever get that thing, where you’re in the middle/starting a new story, but you get a kickass idea for ANOTHER one, and you just cry ‘cause you’re already way too busy?
> 
> Yeah that’s me right now, fml
> 
> lol anyway, I hope you enjoy <3

 

Mermaids aren't real.

 

Mermaids. Aren't. Fucking. Real.

 

Great! Now that everyone was clear on that, and that it was out of the way- Patrick bounded downstairs with a cheery grin, before glancing over at the heap of oats on the ground.

 

He froze, eyes wide and locked.

 

 

No.

 

 

That was just a dream- It didn't happen.

 

He just knocked that bag over last night, he was tired and a little clumsy- no biggie.

 

_Then where's the sack?_

 

Patrick ignored the voice of reason in his head, and forced the grin back onto his face, before he kept walking, leaving the back room and coming face to face with the bathroom door.

 

 

After it had... _spoke_ \- he'd rushed out, and had put a chair under the handle, just for good measure.

He stared, eyes wide and burning into the wood.

 

 

 

 

Mermaids aren't real.

 

 

 

 

_Then what's sitting in your bathtub right now?_

 

 

 

 

Patrick turned sharply, and quickly strode into the living room- looking around the room with a happy, huffing exhale and a strained smile.

He felt his stomach twinge with hunger and he grimaced, opting to head over to the kitchen. He rooted around in the cupboards for a moment, before his eyes flitted out of the kitchen window.

 

The boat.

 

The boat was still down there.

 

And it was still filled with fish.

 

Goddamnit.

 

Patrick sighed heavily, reluctantly leaving the white bowl that promised food, and trudging over to the coat hooks- retrieving his coat, before heading over to the back room again.

He snatched up a bucket, and left through the back door, trying not to slip on the damp grass that slid under his sneakers- But _in his defense_ , he hadn't planned to go out so early, so sneakers had naturally taken the place of what should have been rubber boots.

 

Patrick sighed, looking up at the impressive, yet dynamic, view ahead. It was stormy today; The sea raged against the shore, the seagulls opted to cower on dry land and in caves instead of drift through the clouds. The skies were pale grey and were marred with white, and, dark clouds, and the grass was damp from the heavy rain that had poured over the land the night before- and it made the soil squelch a little under his shoes.

As Patrick edged down the rocky steps, he was careful not to slip on the wet rocks, as they were covered with sheens of water, and something _slimy_.

Patrick reached his boat, standing up on his toes, letting them sink into the wet, black sand a little, before peering in:

 

The net was still in a mess on the floor, surrounded by _quite a lot_ of dead fish. Patrick ignored the thundering heart against his ribcage at the vivid memories of the day before, and he shunned the writhing anxiety in his stomach. He jumped over the edge with a grunt, and shuffled towards the fish.

Patrick made small noises of disgust with a constant grimace on his face, as he picked up each individual, slimy fish by their tails, tossing every one of them into the bucket.

Thankfully, the buckets Brendon had brought him were _huge_ , and the masses of fish that had been coating the boat's floor, now sat up to the brim of his bucket.

 

He wrinkled his nose at the sheen of oil coating the wooden floor, and he shook his head, carefully hopping out of the boat- making sure not to spill any fish.

Patrick would _clean it_ , of course he would, because Patrick was a responsible fisherman- but he couldn't do it on an empty stomach. He hadn't eaten dinner the night before because he'd been so shaken up-

 

 

No.

 

 

It wasn't real.

 

 

_You had blue blood on your hands yesterday._

 

Patrick growled at the voice in his head, before trudging up the rock steps, trying to focus on their cracks and bumps, instead of listening to the voice- that he was trying to drown out with all of his might.

 

That one's smooth-

 

_It's in there, what if it gets out?  
_

 

-And that one's jagged, cool! It looks like a bear, or-

 

_It's waiting, and it's probably really mad.  
_

 

-That one's soaking, covered in beads of water- must have been the rain-

 

_It probably eats babies, remember the teeth?_

 

Patrick exhaled violently and shakily as he stepped back onto the grass, looking up at his house with a deep sigh- eyes flitting nervously over the bathroom window.

He trudged over the grass, through the fence, patted a brown horse that was following him on the head as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

 

Pancakes started barking, leapt down down from the armchair she'd been curled up in, and started jumping up on his legs, before whining and sniffing at the bucket with interest.

Patrick gave a breathy laugh, and headed over to the table, placing the bucket down on the floor next to the fridge. He'd wrap them up later, but he really needed to eat first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oatmeal, _once again_ , was his only option- But the brown sugar and berries coating it made it a little more bearable.

He ate in silence, gazing out at the stormy, swirling clouds, looming over the Hvítserkur. Patrick heard content whines, and looked down to the floor, smiling as he saw Pancakes eating a fish from her designated plate.

 

 

Yes. _Designated plate_.

 

 

One plate, the only light blue ceramic against all of the white- and it was only _for the dog_.

 

He wasn't gonna eat off of a plate she had- sure, they could be cleaned, but despite being incredibly messy, Patrick would _not_ sink that low.

 

She'd finished the fish, only leaving small, sharp bones- which she licked at curiously for a moment, before realizing there was no food on them. Pancakes trudged over to nestle between Patrick's legs, laying down and whining contentedly.

 

Patrick smiled warmly.

 

He had a beautiful house, a lot of land, and even a farm. He had that beautiful view in front of him every single day, he had a good, true friend- _Brendon_ , and he knew kind, good people- Like Thury, Skefill, and hell, even Addi.

 

- _And a monster in the bathroom._

 

 

Patrick was happy. He really was. He wasn't scare-

 

 

There was nothing to be scared of- because there was nothing.

 

 

It wasn't real.

 

 

_It felt real._

 

 

...Patrick had to shut that voice up.

 

 

_Technically, if it isn't real, then you can go to the bathroom, right?_

 

...

 

_No harm in doing it- That is, if you're so sure there's nothing there._

 

...

 

Fine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick stood outside of the door, hands tensed over the chair, hands wrapped around the wood. He pulled the obstacle away, before facing the final barrier- the door itself.

Patrick inhaled and exhaled- deeply and shaky.

 

It was going to be okay. There would be nothing there.

 

He tried to stifle the writhing in his stomach, but he felt the fear claw it's way up his throat- settling in a thick lump there.

 

Patrick narrowed his eyes.

 

Nothing was there.

 

Mermaids weren't real.

 

It was all a dream.

 

It had all been a dream.

 

 

_Then open the door._

 

 

Patrick's hand closed around the handle, and with one, deep exhale- he pushed down.

 

He heard it click.

 

It wasn't going to be there.

 

It was unbearable- The _fear_ was unbearable.

 

It wasn't going to be there.

 

The knot in the pit of his stomach only shifted even more, turning over and over again.

 

It wasn't going to be there.

 

He pushed the door open fully.

 

 

It was there.

 

 

Patrick's eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and his hand fell from the metal handle, going limp at his side.

 

The creature's head was hidden, he couldn't see it past the tub- but it's tail coiled on the floor, completely still.

 

 

Patrick stepped inside, Pancakes trotting behind him cautiously as he closed the door.

 

With tentative, slow steps, he moved forwards, peering his head up just enough to look into the water.

 

 

 

There it was.

 

 

 

Eyes open, relaxed and staring up.

 

Patrick flinched, moving away to press his back to the door again- before the thing sat up, gills still under the water.

 

It stared at Patrick inquisitively, cocking it's head.

 

Patrick cocked his head too, eyes wide and nervous.

 

The thing smiled, and an odd, high grunt came from it's throat, before it's gaze moved to Pancakes. He stared at the dog- who seemingly felt no fear, and only sat on the tile, watching the monster as she scratched behind her ear.

The monster watched the motion with a tilted head, smile broadening into a grin on one side of his face- showing off sharp, jagged rows and layers of teeth.

It's gaze snapped back to Patrick.

 

 

 

 

"What are you?"

 

 

 

 

_Well, a 'thanks for saving my life', might have been nice, but whatever._

 

Patrick's voice came from the thing, and the reddish-blonde felt ready to pass out. He felt his chest beginning to move erratically, his blue eyes were wide, and his pale fingers splayed on the wood behind him, subconsciously searching for the handle.

 

No.

 

He couldn't run from this.

 

He had to be strong.

 

He had to face his fears.

 

 

"What are _you?_ " Patrick wrinkled his nose, lifting his chin and staring down at the thing with firm, squinted eyes.

 

The thing only grinned excitedly, shifting up in the water and putting its hands around the edge, leaning over. The rows of shark teeth in its mouth made Patrick nauseous.

 

 

"What are you?"

 

 

The thing asked the same question again, and Patrick was beginning to think the monster didn't even know what the words meant.

 

"I- I'm- No. _No_." He glared at the creature, pushing himself off of the door and taking a step forwards with a pointed finger.

 

"You're not real. You can't exist. It's not possible." His stern tone collapsed into desperate pants again, and his gaze moved to his feet as he tried to hold back the dizziness that flooded and swirled in his mind. "T-This has to be a prank or something, ma-maybe Brendon- or-"

 

 

 

 

"I'm real."

 

 

 

 

Patrick's eyes shot wide and he stared up at the thing again. It's head was crooked, and it was smiling- but the black eyes only made the whole expression look evil.

 

"No. _You're not_."

 

" _You're_ not real."

 

Patrick scoffed in indignation. " _I'm_ real! It's _you_ -"

 

"I'm real. You're not real."

 

Patrick felt his eyes twitch with rage at the thing's sly smile, and he felt his blood boiling in his veins at the mocking tone his own voice carried from its mouth. He pointed at the creature accusingly, eyes narrowing into a vicious glare. "Okay, so first, you _steal_ my voice- now you have the _audacity_ to tell me _I'm not real?_ Y'know what- _fuck_ you-"

 

 

 

"My voice now."

 

 

 

Patrick's heart dropped, and his face along with it.

 

"W-What?"

 

"My voice now. _Fuck you_."

 

An involuntary, violent gasped scoff of pure disbelief escaped Patrick, and he began breathing audibly and heavily, staring down the monster.

 

" _No_ , it's not _your_ voice- YOU STOLE IT FROM ME-"

 

"My voice." The thing grinned before submerging itself in the water, and swiftly ending the conversation.

 

 

"HEY- HEY, I'M NOT DONE TALKING TO YOU."

 

 

The thing poked it's head out of the water, stopping just as the water passed its nose. It's pointed ears twitched and swivelled by the sides of its head- like a horse's would, when it was searching for the source a noise.

 

It lifted it's mouth out- that was still contorted into a mischievous grin. "I'm done talking to _you_."

 

Before dipping into the water again.

 

Patrick's eye twitched, before they softened as he noticed the water was tinted a deep, royal blue. He furrowed his brow, edging forwards carefully and squinting at the water.

 

The cuts.

 

The creature was bleeding.

 

Patrick watched the airy strands of bright, royal blue blood leaving the slices, rising and diffusing into the water in constant streams.

 

His gaze moved to the creatures face, who only grinned and waved at him from under the water. Patrick jumped back, eyes wide as the creature rose from the water again- black eyes wide too.

 

He had to figure this thing out.

 

Patrick furrowed his brow.

 

 

Detective time.

 

 

He held out a hand to the thing, splaying his fingers and panting. "J-Just stay t-there- Don't m-move, I'll be right back."

 

The thing cocked it's head with an evil grin, Patrick's voice ringing from its mouth again. "I'll stay there."

 

Patrick shuddered involuntarily, and he nodded with a gulp, edging back along the wall and backing out through the door- Pancakes chasing behind with short, joyful barks, a panting tongue, and a wagging tail.

 

" _How_ are you so happy right now?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick shifted back inside, scraping a chair on the tiles in front of him defensively. He'd gathered some supplies: A first aid kit, a notepad, a pen, a book- just to see if he could get through to this thing, and to see if it could shed some light on what the fuck was going on.

 

The creature watched him with a face scrunched up in amusement, before Patrick stopped.

He placed the chair about half a meter away from the tub, rounded it, and gingerly sat down, Pancakes bounding up to tangle herself under the chair, firmly at her owner's feet.

 

The thing stared down at the dog for a second, and Patrick suddenly felt vicioulsy protective, clearing his throat to get it's attention.

The monster looked up, eyes wide and brow furrowed as it glanced down at the notepad.

 

Patrick couldn't believe he was doing this- He was so fucking _stupid_ , this thing was just an _animal_ , it wasn't-

 

"I just- uh...wanted to ask you some questions, just a few...won't take to long, or anything- I'm sure you're busy with mermaid stuff- or, well, no, not really- you're just _lying_ in my bathtub, but I mean- I guess-"

 

"I'm not busy." The thing shrugged, still speaking with Patrick's voice.

 

Patrick felt everything inside him freeze, and a chill sank into his bones as he shivered at the voice, goosebumps rising on his skin.

He nodded shakily, opening the notepad and clicking his pen, neatly jotting down the date, and trying to think of a decent header.

 

Mermaid-guy?

 

What the freaky thing in my bathtub said?

 

The monster?

 

He sighed, opting to just leave it blank and look up at the thing; It seemed to be analyzing him, wide, black eyes shifting over him with a curious stare.

 

"O-Okay, let's start."

 

The thing only leaned back, squinting, and looking unsure.

 

"U-Uh, okay...What are you...?"

 

Patrick already suspected what it's answer would be-

 

"What are _you?_ "

 

He groaned.

 

Might as well just answer it- even if it was just probably mindlessly repeating everything he said, like a parrot.

 

 

"I'm a human being."

 

 

The thing's face fell instantly, fear flooding its eyes as it dropped into the water- only its head poking out of the surface as it trembled lightly. Its mouth twisted into a silent hiss- just like cat's mouths did when they were scared or pissed.

 

Patrick scraped the chair back a little, trying to give it more space, while watching it with wide, nervous eyes.

 

It's mouth fell into a line, lip curling slightly as it tilted it's head up, watching with nervous, but curious eyes- desperately trying to be aloof about the whole situation.

 

 

Patrick didn't know why the thing was scared of him.

 

 

He wasn't very scary: 5'4, soft, pale, light powder blue eyes, light strawberry-blonde hair, no prison tattoos, no intimidating scars- Nothing particularly scary really.

 

But that _thing_ \- Now _that_ was scary. And he really couldn't understand how something that looked like _that_ , could find someone that looked like _him_ : Scary.

 

It shifted up with a sigh, cocking its head, and staring at Patrick- almost waiting for him to say something.

The blonde decided to take a guess.

 

 

"Are you a mermaid?"

 

 

The thing hissed angrily, before spitting at the floor viciously.

 

"Y-You're not a m-mermaid?"

 

It's tail writhed in anger and irritation at the word, and it shook its head with a snarl. "I'm not a mermaid."

 

 

Patrick felt like he was going to pass out.

 

 

"...Are you a d-demon? O-Or-?"

 

"A demon?"

 

The thing tilted it's head like a puppy, with wide, curious eyes- all rage melting away in a mere moment.

 

Patrick blinked quickly- being extremely grateful it's words had been a question.

"Y'know...t-the scary things...l-like, from h-hell...?"

 

The monster's nose wrinkled in confusion, and it's brow furrowed. "Hell?"

 

Patrick only gulped, "L-Like, the d-devil, and uh- y'know, fire, and- and burning eternally, and like...screaming...and..."

He trailed off as the beast only scrunched its face up and shook its head.

 

"No. I'm not a demon."

 

Patrick blinked at the eeriness of hearing his own voice come from something that looked like _that_ , and he shuddered gratefully at the words.

 

 

At least the devil wasn't trying to torment him today.

 

 

Not today Satan. Not today.

 

 

"...Okay, but, the question like- _remains_ , or whatever."

 

The thing only looked confused.

 

Patrick sighed heavily. This thing wasn't very scary anymore, only irritating.

 

"What. Are. You?"

 

The thing crossed its arms, leaned back, and stared up at the ceiling, chewing it's lip thoughtfully with a furrowed brow.

Patrick grimaced at the way the shark teeth ground against its lip- but the skin didn't break, and the thing didn't seem fazed or pained.

 

It looked up again and gave a short screech with a nod.

 

Patrick's notepad and pen clattered to the ground as his hands shot up over his ears with a yell. His eyes were clenched as he felt itchy, burning heat course through them. He started blinking his eyes open groggily after a moment, and his gaze found the creature instantly; It looked apologetic, with wide eyes and a grimace- holding out a open, splayed hand, letting it hover near Patrick with concern.

 

Patrick flinched back at the hand, and the monster quickly pulled it back with an apologetic smile, before shuffling up in the tub and hunching it's shoulders a little, spines and ears falling a little.

 

"I-Is that how you talk? With the- the _screeches?_ "

 

The thing opened it's mouth, before clapping a hand over it and opting to just nod, with crinkled eye corners and pricked up ears instead. Patrick leaned back a little, mouth open with a small noise of understanding. He squinted for a moment, before retrieving his notepad and pen- looking up at the monster.

 

"I'll be right back."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Earmuffs firmly secured over his head- Patrick's ears were hereby safe of any loud, haunting screeches.

He blinked for a moment, before poising his pen over the paper, looking up at the thing- who only stared at the earmuffs curiously, with a cocked head.

 

"So, you're _not_ , a mermaid?"

 

Patrick's voice was a little louder than usual, due to his hearing being restricted by the earmuffs. He was also trying to speak slowly, making sure the thing caught every word. It seemed to... _copy_ the words...and then, reuse them for it's own purposes- and while it was scary _as fuck_ , Patrick had to admit he was kind of intrigued. The more words he said- the better it spoke.

 

He really hoped he wasn't just having a very vivid hallucination.

 

That'd be awkward.

 

If Brendon just walked in and found him chattering to an empty bathtub, totally unwashed, huge beard- with the whole ' _Castaway_ ' vibe going on... _Yeah_...that'd be _bad_.

 

The thing shook its head.

 

"And, you're not a demon, either?"

 

"No."

 

Patrick exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. "Okay, that's a relief..." He mumbled, before glancing down at his notepad- the page was still blank.

 

He wracked his brains- What else was a humanoid with a tail that lived underwater...?

 

Not a mermaid, not a demon...Maybe a-

 

"Kelpie?"

 

The thing shook it's head with a sigh.

 

"Oh wait! Are you a mer _man?_ Did you just get mad 'cause I called you a girl?"

 

The thing hissed again, shaking it's head viciously with narrowed eyes.

 

"A jengu?"

 

"No."

 

"Sirena? Siyokoy?"

 

The thing looked confused, and Patrick only sighed.

 

...Yeah, so...when Patrick was a kid, he was _kind of_ a fanatic about fantasy creatures- he made his mom buy him a ridiculous amount books on them. He loved reading about them- no matter from where in the world they were from, so from Sweden to Australia, he knew _quite a lot_ of-

 

Wait.

 

Oh, he was so dumb- shit, of course.

 

 

"...Are you a siren?"

 

 

The thing's eyes widened and it sighed in exasperation.

 

Shit.

 

Back to the drawing board-

 

 

 

It nodded it's head.

 

 

 

Patrick furrowed his brow.

 

"I thought sirens were like- hot girls? Not scary guys?"

 

It rolled it's eyes and grinned, shaking its head, before trying to speak to explain- but only managing a few words between screeches.

 

Screech, "Are-" More screeching, "-hot-" And, _a hat trick of screeching_ \- This wasn't going to get him anywhere.

 

The thing grunted, pulling at its hair with a hand in frustration, before it's eyes lit up, it snapped it's fingers, and pointed at Patrick.

 

 

"We get hotter over time."

 

 

A scottish, _female_ voice rang through the room.

 

 

 

Patrick was dying.

 

 

 

"W-What...y-your v-v-voice?"

 

 

"Oh! I killed _her_ and ate her vocal chords, obviously."

 

 

Patrick whimpered, eyes wide.

 

"I ate zhis guy too." It squinted, eyes crinkled with a sly grin, speaking with a voice that was french, deep and male now.

 

"W-What?!"

 

It laughed, head tipping back and clunking lightly against the metal edge. It turned its head to stare at Patrick, eyes relaxed and a soft smile on its mouth.

 

"Just kidding."

 

A young, german male voice.

 

"T-This is s-sc- C-Can you stop that? P-Please? J-Just go back to my voice, o-okay?"

 

The thing sighed, nodding and crossing its arms, while lifting its tail to peer at it's own fins. It made a noise of annoyance- and it was definitely Patrick's voice again.

 

"W-What's wrong?"

 

It pointed at it's fins, lip jutting out.

 

"That's wrong."

 

Patrick shifted in his chair to look at it's tail- which was being held up in the air; The fins were all ripped and broken. Patrick didn't know any better, but he'd say it looked painful.

He turned back to the creature, eyes wide and involuntarily concerned.

 

"Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

 

It exhaled sharply and shook its head with a shrug. "No. It does not hurt."

 

"You can just say ' _doesn't_ ', it's shorter."

 

The thing stared coolly for a moment, before shrugging. "Fine, it _doesn't_ hurt.

 

Patrick nodded softly, jotting down 'Siren' on the page, before smiling down at it.

 

He'd faced his fears.

 

He'd talked to the monster, and slowly but surely- He was figuring out what it was.

 

...He also really hoped it had been joking about the ' _I ate these people, took their vocal chords and stole their voices_ ' thing.

 

The redhead looked up again with a tight, strained smile. "O-Okay, so uh- How old are you?"

 

It squinted.

 

"How long have you been alive?"

 

It rolled its eyes and gestured at it's mouth with a defeated shrug. Oh, it didn't have the numbers yet.

 

"Uh...One?"

 

It glared.

 

"...Two?"

 

It hissed.

 

"Well, shit- I'm sorry I don't know how _fucking sirens_ age!"

 

It rolled its eyes with a sigh.

 

"Okay...Uh...Eighteen?"

 

It made a ' _higher_ ' motion with its hand.

 

"Nineteen...?"

 

Higher.

 

"Twenty?"

 

Nope, not high enough. It stared at him with wide eyes, nodding slowly and rolling its hand, almost as though it was egging him onto the right answer.

 

 

 

"...Are you like...8,000 years old or something?"

 

 

 

It gave a small, sharp yell of frustration, flopping back into the water with a splash, whilst writhing and cracking it's tail on the floor in irritation.

Patrick grimaced and peered into the bathtub; It's arms were crossed and it pouted- it kinda looked like a kid after being refused ice cream.

 

"Twenty-one?"

 

It snapped it's fingers and finger-gunned at Patrick.

 

That was it.

 

Patrick noted its age with a '21 years old' in his notepad, as the thing sat up again with a sigh.

 

"Okay, so uh...What's your name?"

 

A short screech.

 

"Uh...So, like- your parents just like... _screeched_ _at you_...when you were born...?"

 

It raised its eyebrows.

 

"L-Like, just held their newborn kid and just went- like- _'_ _screech'_ , and they were like- ' _Yeah, that's a good name_ '-?"

 

It looked unamused.

 

"Well, what's _your_ name?" It flicked its tail idly, and Patrick couldn't help but worry that it was a subtle threat.

Patrick straightened his spine, "U-Uh, well, my name's Patrick."

 

 

 

"Patrick."

 

 

 

It seemed to be trying out the name on it's tongue, tilting its head. It nodded with a small smile, almost approvingly.

 

"So uh...I can't call you _'screech'_ , like- I'll probably mispronounce it, y'know...?"

 

It's eyes were blank, but annoyed.

 

"C-Could I uh- Can I give you a... _human_... _name_...?"

 

It curled its lip, but seemed to be thinking it over. Its head tilted from side to side with small whines, it bit its lip, and it's fingers tapped against the bathtub's edge.

After a long time of consideration, it looked up at Patrick, and nodded solemnly.

 

The creature probably wasn't too happy about it- but it understood it was necessary for them to communicate properly.

 

Patrick squinted, staring at the siren intently.

 

What name would fit something like...that?

 

He surveyed its face- It was...pretty _cute_ actually- NO. No. _No_. Shark teeth, scales, black eyes- very definitely, very _decidedly_ \- not cute.

 

Maybe he could name it something after one of his idols- it wouldn't know the difference anyway, right?

 

Michael...No, it didn't look like a 'Michael'.

 

David...? No, that didn't fit either. It was also his dad's name, and that would make things pretty awkward if- NO. _Bad Patrick_.

 

Maybe something plain and normal- like John. Shit, John didn't _gel_ very well either.

 

 

Suddenly, Patrick's eyes lit up.

 

 

 

Pete.

 

 

When Patrick was seven years old, he'd gone to a fair with his family- back when his mom and dad were still together. He'd one that 'hook-a-duck' game, and the three prizes available were:

 

1\. A plastic sword (Admittedly, not Patrick's thing)

 

2\. A plastic tiara (Admittedly, not Patrick's thing _either_ )

 

3\. A goldfish.

 

The choice was obvious- he'd taken the goldfish. He'd been enamoured with the tiny fish, and it lived in a small, round bowl in his bedroom. His parents were progressively getting more and more nervous about how to break it to their youngest son, that the goldfish was probably going to die within the week- Since, fair-prize goldfish are notoriously weak.

 

However, to everyone's surprise- the fish survived. And not only did it survive- it got huge. And violent. And scary.

 

Once, Patrick had bought another fish to keep him company- a cute, purple guppy which he'd named James. But the moment he'd put it in the tank with the prize fish- The goldfish _**ATE**_ the guppy.

 

 

Fucking _fish_ cannibalism.

 

 

Long story short: Patrick was traumatized, and his parents flushed the goldfish down the toilet- although...now that he thought about it, that goldfish was a tough son of a bitch, and it was probably still alive in a sewer somewhere- Probably about the size of a fucking whale too, at this point.

 

 

That terrifying goldfish's name was: Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third.

 

 

Literally, no idea where the fuck he got that elaborate name from- but that was it.

 

That monster goldfish reminded him of the thing a little.

 

They had the same, evil stare.

 

Huh.

 

Maybe Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third had somehow swam into some radioactive waste and had mutated into this thing. And now that it was strong enough, it had come back to find Patrick, and make him pay for flushing it down the toilet.

 

That was a possibility.

 

... _Okay not really_...

 

He still thought the name 'Pete' worked though, it fit the creature's face well enough.

 

 

"What about ' _Pete_ '?"

 

 

It looked unimpressed.

 

"Pete... _Lewis_?"

 

Marginally better, but still unconvinced.

 

"Pete, Lewis... _Kingston_...?"

 

It's eyes flashed a little at ' _Kingston_ ', but Patrick couldn't tell with what. It tilted it's head, eyes squinting- it was still dubious.

 

"Pete Lewis Kingston _Wentz_?"

 

Still unhappy.

 

"... _The third_...?"

 

It huffed a laugh and grinned, shrugging with a nod.

 

 

Elaborate, snobby motherfucker.

 

 

 

 

Patrick suddenly felt a pinch of hunger in his stomach and his eyes widened, rushing to check his watch.

 

12:00pm

 

Fuck, he'd been talking with Pete all morning, and he was fucking _starving_.

He froze for a second, before looking up at the siren.

 

"Uh...Are you hungry...?"

 

It nodded eagerly, surging forwards, eyes wide, and hands clasping together like he was praying.

Patrick nodded slowly, leaning back, and terrified to ask his next question.

 

 

 

"...What do you eat?"

 

 

 

The creature grinned, showing off his rows and layers of sharp, huge shark teeth, before narrowing its eyes evilly.

 

 

"Human."

 

 

Patrick yelped, and jolted back, moving to stand behind the chair defensively. But the thing only laughed raucously- with Patrick's laugh, and fuck _it was creepy_. It leaned back into the water, only its head sticking out from the liquid as it jolted and hiccuped with quietening laughter.

Patrick's gaze fell into a blank, unamused, and burning stare.

 

 

"What do you _actually_ eat?"

 

 

It chewed its lip, seemingly struggling to find the words, before its eyes widened at it pointed at its lifted tail.

 

"You eat _yourself?_ "

 

"No."

 

"Are you a _cannibal?_ "

 

_Oh shit_ it really _was_ Pete the goldfish-

 

"No!"

 

It was laughing again, and the grin on its lips reached its eyes- eyes crinkling to give the creature a light hearted look.

 

Y'know, despite the whole ' _Monster_ ' thing.

 

It chewed its lip again, before extending his hand, thumb up and fingers together. He held it out, facing forwards, before shimmying it as he moved it forwards.

It kinda looked like sign language, but...

 

"Wait, is it fish?! You eat fish right?!" Patrick was grinning, eyes wide, and an immense feeling of pride for figuring it out rising and glowing in his chest.

It nodded, snapping its fingers and pointing at Patrick. "Fish."

 

 

Thankfully, Patrick had a _whole bucket_ of fish- Handy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick prepared himself another bowl of oatmeal, because his only other option was to cook a codfish, and he did _not_ want to cook right now.

He took one of his many cans of sardines and emptied it onto the blue plate for Pancakes- who had fallen asleep by his feet during his talk with Pete.

Patrick glanced down at the bucket of fish by the fridge.

 

He picked the bucket up by the handle, before trudging back over to the bathroom, pushing the door open and peeking inside to see-

 

Oh.

 

Okay.

 

Pete was gingerly petting Pancakes- who only whined happily in response, and nuzzled her nose further into its pruned hand. It laughed quietly, before its head snapped up to look at Patrick.

Pete pulled its hand back and sunk down again, only keeping its eyes above the water, staring at the human with a careful squint.

 

Patrick moved forwards slowly, holding up the bucket- making Pete's eyes widen and fill with want.

The creature lifted its arms and made grabby hands. Patrick laughed- genuinely, and truly amused for the first time since he'd caught the thing, and he placed the bucket down next to the bathtub, before leaving to the kitchen again.

 

 

When he returned- holding another bowl of oatmeal, and a plate of sardines, he'd arrived just in time to see something truly horrific.

 

 

Pete biting off the entire head off of a cod fish, and then proceeding to slurp up the spine like it was eating spaghetti in Lady and the Tramp.

The bones crunched between the monster's teeth and Patrick retched, shuddering involuntarily.

There was fish blood everywhere, and half of the bucket was empty already.

 

Jesus, this thing must have been ravenous.

 

Patrick's eyes were wide as he gingerly placed Pancake's plate on the floor with a small clack, before subtly scraping the chair further back from the bathtub. With eyes still the size of full moons, he rounded the chair and sat down- not taking his unwavering gaze off of the siren at any point.

 

Pete ripped another fish in half with it's teeth, splattering red blood in the water- Patrick would definitely have to change that after lunch.

 

Patrick swallowed awkwardly and tried to eat his oatmeal, while trying to avoid looking at the massacre that was going on a mere distance away.

The sounds of crunching bones and ripping flesh made him shudder and retch everytime- _Shit_ , he needed to distract Pete if he wanted to get through his oatmeal without projectile vomiting.

 

 

"U-Uh...Where are you from? Are you local?"

 

 

Pete raised an eyebrow, closing its mouth just as its teeth were about to destroy a silvery fish. It shook his head, "Not here."

 

Patrick took the opportunity of silence to shove a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. "Y-You mean you're not _from_ here? Not from Iceland?"

Pete shook his head, "No, I'm not from Iceland."

 

Another heaped, desperate spoonful with a nod, "And uh- uh...So, do you _like_ it- here...? Not in like- in my bathroom, like in... _Iceland?_ "

 

Pete shrugged, looking to be in two minds, and also, seemingly struggling to find the words.

Patrick shoved more spoonfuls past his lips, while reeling off helpful words between each one. "Pretty? Cold? Grey? Blue?"

 

"It's pretty, and cold." Pete nodded solemnly. "Iceland is grey. So I'm grey." He motioned his head to his scales. "Where I'm from is blue. I'm blue there."

 

Patrick spoon lay forgotten in his hand for a moment, before he quickly ate another spoonful. "Blue...? Like, the caribbean or something?"

Pete squinted, looking dubious but interested, and the look made Patrick decide to list a few caribbean countries names- just to see if it recognized any of them.

 

"Maybe in South America? Like, I dunno- Brazil? Mexico? Uh...Jamaica?"

 

Pete's eyes widened. "Jamaica."

 

Patrick's eyes widened too. "Jamaica?" His jaw dropped a little, "Y-You're from Jamaica?"

Pete nodded with an ecstatic grin, ripping the head off of the silver fish in his hand- and forcing Patrick to hold back a retch.

 

"Wow, that's pretty...exotic, I guess..." Pete only looked confused as Patrick suddenly furrowed his brow. "B-But...if you're from Jamaica, why are you in Iceland?"

 

Pete looked somber at that, shrugging as it shoved the fish's tail fins in its mouth, teeth making loud crunching sounds as they shredded the cartilage.

 

"Did you...move...? Like, _travel_ here?"

 

Pete looked downtrodden, eyes lowering to the water sadly.

 

"...Did you get lost?"

 

Its head flicked up at that, lip curled and brow furrowed. "I'm not lost."

Patrick held back a laugh at the obvious lie, and pulled his mouth into a line with wide eyes, nodding vehemently, "Uh... _ooh-okay_. So, how did you end up here?"

 

Pete's eyes narrowed and it glared into the water, Patrick's voice from his lips only saying one, enraged, strained word.

 

 

 

"Mermaid."

 

 

 

Patrick blinked, "...Mermaid? Y-You're here 'cause of a mermaid...?"

 

Pete nodded with a snarl, before looking up at Patrick and pointing to a blue gash on its arm. Patrick blinked, "A mermaid did that to you?" The creature nodded, eyes burning with rage.

 

"I-It attacked you?"

 

Pete held up ten fingers and then made a 'higher' motion, making the blonde blink rapidly. "U-Uh...More than ten? Like a whole...pack...? They attacked you? Wait, is it called a 'pack'? Shit, what it's called...?"

 

The monster didn't even have time to speak before Patrick answered his own question. "No! A group of mermaids is a gossip! Sorry, yeah, a _gossip_ of mermaids attacked you, then?"

 

Patrick was proud- his mermaid knowledge was finally being useful for something.

 

Pete nodded, lip twitching in anger- That, _thankfully_ , wasn't directed at the human.

 

"I thought mermaids were supposed to be nice..."

 

Pete hissed at that, ears flattening against the sides of his head as his spines bristled, before speaking in Patrick's voice- but sounding harsh and angry. "They're nice to humans. Not to sirens."

 

Patrick blinked, that must have been the thudding under the boat after he'd caught Pete. Mermaids trying to attack the creature. Holy shit.

"Why aren't they nice to sirens?" Pete opened his mouth, but could only make frustrated noises as he couldn't find the words again. "They don't like you? Do they think they're better than you, or something?"

 

Pete nodded quickly with wide eyes, pointing at Patrick. "They think sirens are-" He gave an irritated groan, not being able to find the exact word he wanted as his wide eyes scanned the water in concentration. "...Demon."

 

"What, they think you're evil? Like monsters or something?"

 

In all fairness, Patrick could empathise with the mermaids- It was hard not to consider Pete a monster, the creature fell into the catergory beautifully.

 

Pete looked solemn, eyes calmer now, but there were still embers of rage behind the black, glassy layer. "Monsters."

 

"I-I mean, you _do kinda_ -"

 

Pete hissed, teeth baring and spines shaking, making Patrick jump and yell- "See?! That's exactly what I mean! It's fucking scary!"

The creature stopped instantly, straightening up with a glare before sinking back down into the water, only leaving his head above the surface.

Pete's lip curled in disgust, and his eyes filled with contempt.

 

 

 

 

"Humans are monsters."

 

 

 

 

Patrick scoffed a laugh, rolling his eyes, and ignoring the sharp sting of the insult- stifling the strong urge to defend his species.

 

"We're the monsters? Oh yeah, _sure_ -"

 

Pete reached into the bucket, pulling up another fish and wrapping a hand around both ends. One hand around the tail, one hand around the head. "Humans do this-" Pete ripped the fish in half with a sharp tug, before he held up the tail. "-to sirens...and _we're_ the monsters?"

 

Patrick was thoroughly confused, shaking his head quickly. "We don't even know you exist! We don't rip your tails off!"

 

Pete hissed, shaking its head and shoving the fish head into its mouth, crunching its teeth down, and making blood drip down its face, before it swiped it away with the back of its wrist.

 

Patrick didn't know what else to say, how could he convince it that humans didn't kill sirens?

 

He needed to gain its trust- but that would take time. Right now, he didn't want to piss it off even more and risk getting bitten, so he stood, whistled for Pancakes and backed away from the room.

 

He returned after he'd washed the plates, grabbing the first aid kid that had been neglected from the floor. "I uh...need to drain the water. It's dirty."

 

Pete glowered, but gave a sharp nod- only tensing, but ultimately keeping still as Patrick rolled up his sweater sleeve, before he reached his hand into the water, pulling the bathplug out.

 

"Hold your breath." Patrick nodded to Pete- who only nodded. The water flowed away, leaving faint purple tinted stains on the sides- a mixture of siren and fish blood, he supposed.

Patrick sped away to the kitchen, grabbing a flannel before running back into the bathroom. He wiped the stains away as best he could, glancing up at Pete's gills- that were completely closed and that only looked like slices in its skin because of it.

As soon as the matte metal was clean again, Patrick opened the taps on full blast, letting the water flow back into the bathtub.

 

 

"I can uh- help you with those, if you want."

 

 

Patrick nodded towards Pete's cuts as he closed the taps, but the siren only shook its head- fear flashing through its eyes like a blinding lightning bolt, before being replaced by fake anger, in an attempt to look intimidating.

 

The strawberry-blonde stood, smiling awkwardly. "I uh...I can get you a radio...And uh- you can listen to it, and find a voice you like. Does that sound good?"

 

An open smile grew on Pete's face involuntarily, and he nodded gratefully with wide eyes. Patrick gave a relieved laugh and turned, heading to the door. "I'll be right back."

 

He grabbed a small radio that Brendon had brought him. It was extremely well-made, and it even picked up signals from as far away as America. Brendon had gifted it to him to give Patrick a little piece of home.

Patrick had had no words to convey _just how_ _grateful_ he was, but Brendon seemed to understand anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The blonde returned to the bathroom, smiling awkwardly at Pete again- who was just staring at the radio with wide, inquisitive eyes. Patrick shifted the chair along the tiles, moving it closer to the bathtub's side, and he placed the radio on it, before crouching down to explain the controls to Pete.

 

"So, this little dial here-" He twisted the small knob on the radio, "-Changes the voice you hear, okay?"

Pete nodded, with a small smile, and wide eyes that peered forwards, as it leaned out of the tub. "Okay."

"And this button makes them start, or stop." He pushed the on button, and smiled as voices with Boston accents started speaking, idly talking about baseball results. Pete pricked up his ears and grinned, before reaching over to change to dial- Chicago accents, French for some reason, and then Texan voices.

 

Pete grinned up at Patrick, nodding gratefully, before lowering his eyes in thought, struggling with a word.

 

"Are you trying to say thank you?"

 

 

Pete grinned.

 

Patrick ignored the scary teeth.

 

 

 

"Thank you, Patrick."

 

 

 

 


	4. Screechin' In The Rain

 

Patrick awoke on the couch, covered in a pile of thick books, and with the sharp smell of icy air in his nostrils. He blinked his eyes open softly, but abruptly sat up with a stretch, yawn and a groan, before rubbing his eyes with a hand.

 

The sound of thundering pitter-patters echoed all through the house, and Patrick glanced out of the window to see fat droplets of rain falling from the dark grey clouds- making the sea ripple and making the soil wet.

 

Patrick sniffed, feeling a slightly stuffy nose- paired with a slightly sore throat, and he could only groan at himself, annoyed; He'd fallen asleep downstairs, without his cavern of comforters- and now he was suffering a cold for it.

Standing, and being careful not to wake the puppy that was still sleeping next to him, he trudged down the hallway, and moved to hover by the bathroom door.

 

 

 

He still didn't completely believe his own eyes- but for some reason, he was starting to go along with the insanity unquestioningly.

Patrick had even spent the night scouring and pouring through every mythology book at his disposal- thankfully Brendon had brought him a good range of topics- everything from cooking books to vikings sagas, and in the end, he'd managed to find about three mythology books.

There hadn't been much information that he didn't already know, and after quadruple-checking every single page- he'd drawn a complete and utter blank, before passing out on the couch.

 

Patrick gingerly opened the door, head peaking around the corner with wide powdery eyes that felt sandy, rough and prickling from only opening a few moments ago.

 

"Pete?" Patrick whispered in a quiet, strained, raspy-sick voice, and gulped lightly. He stepped inside, carefully letting the door click shut behind him. He glanced at the radio- still on, and was still perched on the chair, before looking over at the bathtub.

 

 

 

The creature was seemingly... _asleep_.

 

 

 

It was leaning against the end of the tub, turned on its side, one hand by its face, and the other submerged in the water.

 

 

It looked... _different_ , somehow.

 

 

Patrick squinted carefully, trying to analyze the differences.

 

Its skin was less grey, there was a warmer, _more alive_ , glow behind it now; Something like honeyed caramel, brown and warm- but faint. Very faint. Patrick’s eyes had to seriously strain to see it.

It's bones were still visible- much to Patrick's dismay, as the skin remained translucent.

It's hair was drier than Patrick had ever seen it before- and he was surprised to note that the strands weren't as dark as they'd originally seemed.

The light, faint sunbeams that shone in through the window caught the creature's hair, lighting it up in a soft, light brown glow around the edges- looking kind of like a halo. The main rest of the strands were dark, _almost black_ \- but not quite.

 

It's tail was covered in grey, black and clear scales, but a few looked... _torn_. Patrick wrinkled his nose at that, wondering if the beast was in any pain because of them- he made a note to ask later.

 

 

Then Patrick noticed it's nose.

 

 

The skin was still flat over the nostrils, but it was _thinner_. Patrick could see faint, dark holes under the skin.

The nose itself it stuck out a little more, because whereas before it had been pressed close to it's face- now it _almost_ looked like normal, human nose.

 

Patrick shuddered, consoling himself that he was just imagining things. There's no way it was like- _shapeshifting_ or something.

 

 

Pete's tail writhed suddenly, making Patrick jolt back with an embarrassingly loud yelp. Wide black eyes snapped open, instantly ready to search for threats.

It sat up, squinting and watching Patrick carefully.

 

 

Patrick had to admit- he felt a little defeated.

 

 

He'd thought they'd made at least _a little_ progress yesterday, but by the suspicious look Pete was giving him- probably not.

 

"U-Uh, a-are you-"

 

Patrick's gaze shifted to the window, and he frowned at the heavy rain.

Pete gave a small, animal-like whine, and the human's eyes flicked back in a second.

 

The creature writhed its tail, making small pained noises, and jutting its lip out with narrowed eyes.

Patrick furrowed his brow, mouth in a silent gape, and mind buzzing to figure out what exactly was wrong with the beast.

 

"Is it...is it your scales? They look a little...torn, or-"

 

"No, it's not my _scales_ , dude, it's my-"

 

Patrick's eyes widened- the radio had worked. It had fucking worked. Pete had another voice now- it was American, definitely Chicago, and oh fuck- it made him feel warm inside, and at home.

It was a touch nasally, but it was a little rough, collected, and almost aloof. The way the ends of it's words sounded, the impressed ' _ing'_ , and the use of slang like ' _dude_ '...It made Patrick smile.

 

It almost felt human.

 

Almost.

 

Until you looked at it's face, of course.

 

Or the tail.

 

Pete looked frustrated, wrinkling its nose and biting down on its lip with sharp teeth that made Patrick wince. It flicked its tail again, and it clicked in Patrick's mind.

 

"Are you like...cramped or something? Does your tail hurt?"

 

Pete grinned and nodded, before its tail gave an involuntary kick and it's face contorted painfully. Patrick jumped a little, but did his best to steady his breathing and heart.

 

"U-Uh, do- do you want me to put you back in the sea? I-I mean I don't r-really know why I even like...took you out in the first place, I just-"

 

The creature gave a quiet, but short, sharp and afraid screech, nose ducking under the water and only leaving wide black eyes visible as it shook its head.

Patrick gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw at the noise, wincing as he felt the itchy heat spread through his ears.

Truly, no other sound had ever had that effect on him- this was a first.

 

"O-Okay, so...not...the sea...?"

 

Pete shook its head, eyes solemn and mouth straight.

 

"Not the sea, dude."

 

Patrick nodded shakily, as he bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. Where could he take Pete? Not the sea, maybe-

 

Patrick's eyes lit up, and a practically felt a light bulb buzz above his head.

 

Vesturhopsvatn.

 

As Brendon insisted.

 

Or Vesturhop lake.

 

As Patrick prefered to call it when the man was out of an earshot.

 

 

He could take Pete to the lake and just let it swim around for a while- And, even better, nobody would be fishing or lazing by the water in _this_ weather.

Patrick grinned, and Pete's eyes flooded with hope before...Shit.

 

 

 

"...How long can you hold your breath?"

 

 

 

Pete tilted its head, shark teeth worrying his lip as its eyes shifted in thought, before it lifted ten fingers- causing Patrick to make a note to teach the creature all the numbers later.

 

"Ten minutes?"

 

Pete nodded, "Ten minutes."

 

Patrick's eyes widened a fraction- Geez, that was pretty long, but he supposed they needed to hold their breath more than humans did- if they ever got stranded or something, of course.

 

"Okay, uh..." Patrick edged around the bathtub, scratching at his jaw thoughtfully as Pete watched him with interest.

 

"Can you like- crawl out of there?"

 

Pete shrugged.

 

Patrick rolled his eyes.

 

"Well can you try?"

 

Pete made a small, unimpressed grunt in the back of his throat, before sitting up in the tub, and moving its hands to grasp the metal edge. Patrick noticed its knuckles pale, as it heaved to lean over the metal, dropping its hands onto the cold slate floor with a wet patter.

 

The middle of it's body- or, the top of its impractically long tail, was still curled in the tub, and black eyes looked up at Patrick, something between proudly and pleading.

 

Patrick stepped over to the water tentatively, rolling up his sleeves with a grimace as he stared down at the royal-blue tinted water.

He glanced at Pete nervously- who was staring back with pressing eyes and closed gills, before reaching his pale hands into the water, firmly grasping the tail. Pete hissed a little, and it must have been automatic, because it was soon looking apologetic and shrugging lightly.

Patrick's eyes were wide as he lifted the tail, struggling not to let it slip from his hands; It felt just like a fish, the same, fleshy squishy texture, and the same slimy protective sheen that covered the scales- and while he understood it was necessary to help fish swim well- keep them like streamlined or whatever, it didn’t change the fact that it was still really, fucking, _gross_.

 

As soon as the tail was carefully placed on the floor, Patrick lurched over to the sink, hunching over and scrubbing at his hands with a bar of soap- before he heard dragging noises behind him.

 

Patrick's head swivelled around, eyes wide and terrified as he saw Pete crawling forwards, dragging itself along the floor with its arms, and leaving handprints on the slate floor before its tail blurred them. The creature gave small grunts every now and then, especially when it tried to reach the door handle- arm stretching up, hand open, pruned fingers splaying and the muscles in its side tensing as it tried vainly to reach the metal.

 

"NO- No no- it's okay-" Patrick practically ran over to the door, pressing his side to the wall and wrapping a hand around the metal.

Pete motioned to its gills frantically, and Patrick swallowed, before narrowing his eyes. "You said ten minutes, don't chicken out now."

 

It only hissed- despite looking extremely labored by the action.

 

Fuck.

 

Patrick may not have thought this through.

 

There was no way they'd get to the lake by foot in time- especially with having to drag this thing along.

 

He didn't have a car, or-

 

He heard a horse neigh outside.

 

 

God fucking dammit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, it turns out horses don't get too freaked out by monsters- good to know.

 

Patrick heard indignant whines from under the tarp which covered Pete- who was currently slung across the back of the grey horse. Patrick rolled his eyes, before feeling the huge knot of nerves in his stomach tighten as he looked down at the brown horse he was sat on.

 

He would have prefered not to ride a horse, but ten minutes was _dire_ , and the lake was nearly twenty minutes walking distance- Pete would have been as good as sushi by then.

A car would have been ideal- 5 minutes driving distance, but he'd had to settle for horses in the end, for fear of getting bitten by a pissed off siren who was promised a lake, not a bathtub.

 

Patrick had a rope string wound tightly around his hand, and he was seriously trying to bite back any fear of riding this animal.

 

He'd only rode a horse once before, it was when he was five years old, and his sister, Megan, was having a 'horse phase', meaning she'd drag the whole family to any horse related event she could find.

That meant she'd wanted her birthday at a ranch- meaning all the kids would have to ride horses for entertainment.

Well, long story short- Patrick was so nervous that he made the horse nervous, and it promptly decided to kick the child on it's back into the dirt.

 

So, forgive him for not having a fantastic opinion of horses.

 

...Thankfully these particular ones were chill.

 

_Fucking good_.

 

 

 

 

Patrick glanced up, before his face split into a relieved grin. There it was, clear and pebble grey- Vesturhop lake.

 

As Pete hissed like a python from under the tarp, Patrick had never found himself so glad to see water before.

 

With a tug to the right on the rope bridle, and a squeeze of his legs around the animal’s sides, Patrick urged the horse to the lake, and of course, because it was just Patrick's luck- it decided to start galloping.

 

Patrick managed to hold back whimpers and yelps with every sharp bounce that hit him between the legs painfully, and he finally managed to sharply tug the horse to a stop, jumping off almost instantly.

A few more seconds of cautious glares, before he grabbed both ropes and pulled on them, leading both horses to the first post on a simple, yet long, wooden pier. Patrick tied the rope firmly, hoping the horses wouldn't come loose and decide to go on _a fucking adventure_ , a la The Hobbit, or something.

 

The strawberry-blonde stepped over to the tarp on the grey horse's back, before awkwardly shifting it down, trying to place it down on the ground before-

 

An indignant and pained screechy hiss came from Pete, and the blonde froze.

 

 

 

He may or may not have dropped the fish.

 

 

 

Patrick groaned as he leant down, carefully lifting the bulk again and pulling it to the end of the pier, before placing it down- _softly_ , this time, and rounding to stand, with one foot either side of the creature.

He reached down, undoing the velcro and rope he'd used to keep it secure, before pulling back the plasticy fabric, and squinting down at the beast with a cocked head.

 

Pete cocked his head up at Patrick too, eyes squinted against the rain and sunlight as he leaned up- gills struggling to stay closed. In an instant, and in a moment of basic instinct, the creature's dark gaze dragged over to the water- cool and grey, whilst small ripples appeared and disappeared with every drop of rain that landed on the surface.

 

It shifted over, eyes curious but brow furrowed as it looked over the precipice, hands wrapping around the wooden edge. Pete's head bobbed up and down unevenly, almost checking the water- and the movements reminded Patrick of a cat before it tried to jump from a high surface.

 

"It's deep enough, you'll be fine, Pete."

 

Pete looked up, eyes blinking quickly at the raindrops that tried to invade them, before it nodded deeply and solemnly. It pulled itself over the edge, and effortlessly dove in, tail sliding down like a winding rope after it.

Patrick stepped back gingerly, being careful to not step on, or get tangled in the tail.

He watched the water with a tilted head and wide eyes, but he saw nothing- Pete was gone.

 

Patrick slowly sat down, cross legged and peering down over the edge. And while he told himself he was just sitting to rest, deep down, it almost felt as though he were waiting for the creature to re-emerge.

 

He wouldn't admit that to himself though.

 

What did he care if it just stayed in the lake?

 

It'd be better for Patrick if it did- He'd finally have his fucking bathtub back, that'd be _swell_.

 

A few more minutes passed, and Patrick felt a twisting knot of anxious nerves in his stomach.

 

He wasn't sure why, exactly- as said before: he didn't care if the monster just decided to disappear.

 

 

 

Patrick's eyes were a little glazed over, and he was staring down at nothing in particular. He was so dazed, he didn't notice a figure rising in the water.

 

Pete's face poked out from the water’s surface, stopping just under his chin as he grinned up at Patrick impishly- making the redhead jolt and shift backwards in surprise.

 

Pete made a face, and Patrick only swallowed, shifting back to his original position, and looking down at the water, but avoiding Pete’s stare with sheepish eyes.

 

Pete hadn't even tried to scare him- Patrick was just _that_ skittish.

 

The creature tilted its head and half-grinned in amusement, sharp edges of teeth poking out, before it's eye corners crinkled in mirth and it's half-grin broadened into a full one instead. Pete dove back down into the dark depths, making Patrick blink nervously as he watched the water- fully attentive this time...but once again, he saw nothing as he watched the water for a good fifteen minutes.

 

Patrick stretched up and yawned, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the stormy sky.

Patrick really loved storms. And rain. And snow. Sleet. Hail- if it’s cold and you feel cozy in it, he loved it.

 

A few seconds later, his thoughts were abruptly ended as a fist shot out of the water, knuckles white around something clasped in its hand.

 

Patrick felt his jump and his yelp were both perfectly justified this time.

 

Pete rose his head again, grinning mischievously, before the smile turned pure and cheery as he stretched his fist over towards Patrick, nodding at his hand.

 

Patrick was nervous.

 

Of course he was- sure, that childlike eye-crinkled grin was cute, but he didn't like the slyness it had held a few seconds before.

 

Patrick stretched out his hand, palm up, as Pete hovered its fist above it, stopping mere centimeters from actually touching his skin- despite its black eyes locking onto the pale hand.

 

Pete's hand opened and a piece of metal clunked into Patrick's palm, and he'd barely had time to examine it before Pete ducked his mouth under the water again- eyes wide and watching expectantly.

 

Almost like a kid would after he gave his mom his drawing- patiently waiting for approval.

 

Patrick blinked and looked down at the trinket in his hand, eyes widening softly.

 

It was a coin- and a really old one at that.

 

On one side, there was a small carving of a viking boat, with a fish sat beneath it. The edges were striped and looked as though they'd been sliced to make small, neat ridges. Patrick flipped the coin in his palm with steadily widening eyes- eyes scanning over a tiny carving of a sword, surrounded by a circle of- what looked like, runes.

 

Patrick blinked softly, eyes wide and jaw a little slack as he glanced down past his palm to look at Pete. "I-Is this for me?"

 

Pete tilted its head, before raising it out of the lake and letting a half-smile form on its lips. "You're welcome, Patrick." It quickly dove down again, re-submerging itself in the cold-looking water.

 

Patrick only leaned back, uncrossing his legs and folding his knees up, feet firmly on the wood as he brought the coin closer, studying it carefully.

 

It was a viking coin- he was pretty sure. And he was also amazed. And touched.

 

 

 

 

-But before he’d had any real time for contemplation, Pete rose from the watery depths again arm outstretched and fingers curled into a fist. Patrick leaned down again, hand outstretched as Pete dropped another piece of metal there- Black eyes, once again, lingering on Patrick's skin.

 

The gazes were making him nervous, admittedly.

 

He hoped it wasn't assessing how tasty Patrick would be- being eaten was not in his best interest, now or ever.

 

Patrick studied the new coin, holding it between his fingers as the viking one was clenched in the pocket of his fist. He held it up to the light, squinting to see a man's profile carved into the dull gold. It was also surrounded by- what looked like, letters, although he couldn't understand the language. This coin also looked more refined and polished than the other one- that could barely be considered a circle.

 

Patrick brought the coin down, flipping it into his other palm and eyes widening in shock, before he glanced down at Pete.

 

It was a man- the same man from the profile before, but at his side, were two humans with fish tails, leaning up on their arms, tails dragging behind them- just like he'd seen Pete do so many times before.

 

Pete's hands climbed up to the edge, fingers hooking around the wood as it grinned up at Patrick. "T-This, did you see the-?"

 

"Mermaids are nice to humans, remember?"

 

Patrick still wasn't used to Pete's new fluent way of speaking, it was so different from the jarring, unnatural chunks of words it'd say only the day before.

 

"This is really old, I mean-"

 

"They saw them, I think. That's why they carved them."

 

Patrick blinked slowly, furrowing his brow. "Who carved-?"

 

"It's latin, dude, c'mon- look-"

 

Pete pulled itself up, and leaned onto the wood by Patrick's side, pointing at the foreign letters. Patrick glanced over at Pete, grimacing at how close it was. "S-So, it was the...Romans...?"

Pete shrugged, "Probably." It dove back into the water without a splash, disappearing into the depths again, and Patrick couldn’t help but fantasize about what relics or treasures the siren would find-

 

 

 

 

It came back with a chair.

 

An actual chair.

 

"Pete, put it back."

 

"...Fine."

 

 

 

 

Some time later there was another fist in the air, another lingering stare, and another trinket- but it wasn't a coin this time.

 

A perfect, white, corkscrew shell was placed in his palm, and Patrick glanced up at Pete, blinking rain out of his eyes.

Pete shrugged, "I dunno I thought it was pretty."

 

Patrick nodded slowly, jaw still a little slack at the...almost... _sweet_ , gesture. "Y-Yeah, it is."

 

 

This time, Pete didn't dive back down.

 

 

Patrick stared awkwardly, but Pete just flitted its eyes from place to place, teeth nipping its lower lip.

Suddenly the black eyes snapped to Patrick, and a sheepish look filled them. It blinked rain away, before tilting its head, and eyes lingering on Patrick's cheek.

 

"...Can I ask you something?"

 

Patrick felt a knot of anxious suspicion in the pit of his stomach. "Is it a question or a favour?"

 

"...Favour."

 

Great.

 

If the next words out of its mouth were 'Can I eat your leg?', he was gonna kick this thing in the face and run.

 

"Okay, sure."

 

It blinked, black eyes a little wider.

 

 

 

 

"Can I touch you?"

 

 

 

 

Patrick almost choked on his own spit, but he just about managed to hold back a coughing fit with two, solid, deep, throat clearings. "W- _What_?"

"Not like, in a weird way, or anything." Pete shook its head with a grimace, seemingly realizing its poor choice of words.

 

 

But then again, _is_ there a non-creepy way to ask someone if you can touch them?

 

Patrick didn't think there was.

 

 

"I just-" Pete exhaled deeply, "My parents always told me to stay away from humans, but, I- I've always been...I dunno- _curious_...I guess?"

 

Patrick could only gape.

 

"...And that somehow makes you want to touch me...?"

 

Pete shrugged lightly before pushing black, damp strands out of its eyes and from its forehead, revealing scales running down its temples- in the same way the rest of its upper body was smattered with them.

"We have scales, but- but humans don't." Pete dropped its hand and cocked his head a little with a grimace. "I mean- it's weird, you- you all look so _soft_."

 

Patrick gave a surprised laugh, eyes softening. "I mean, _sure_ , I guess we _do_ -"

 

 

 

 

"But it's so stupid."

 

 

 

 

Pete looked confused, and its face was scrunched up in something like mild irritation and anger. Patrick furrowed his brow at the expression, feeling slightly insulted at his skin being called 'stupid'. "What do you even _mean?_ Like-?"

 

Pete shrugged slowly, wide eyes staring up as it shook its head lightly- as though it were obvious as 1 + 1 = 2.

 

"What if you get attacked? Or hurt? That squishy skin can't protect you, I bet even like- _wood_ would go through it."

 

"Well of course wood goes through it-"

 

"That's not normal!"

 

"Yes it is!"

 

Pete furrowed its brow and Patrick crossed his arms, eyebrows raised in, what he felt, was the sweet taste of verbal victory.

 

"Can I touch you then? I just wanna...I wanna see if-"

 

Patrick sighed.

 

Heavily.

 

"...Y-Yeah, yeah- It's fine."

 

Patrick leaned forwards, and while he had expected Pete's hand to go to his arm or something- it went to his face.

The fingers hovered above Patrick's cheek, long, pruned digits trembling. Patrick furrowed his brow, "Are you okay?"

 

Pete only nodded wordlessly with wide eyes, still keeping his hand just above the skin.

 

Patrick assumed Pete had some ingrained fear of touching humans- if it'd been telling the truth about its parents' rules.

Its fingers inched closer, face scrunching up in a sharp grimace of fear- as though it were touching a flame, and then-

 

 

 

 

 

"Góðan daginn, Útlendingur."

 

 

 

 

 

Foreigner.

 

Shit.

 

Patrick jolted and turned, hand automatically shoving Pete's head down into the water.

 

It was Holm.

 

Oh _motherfucker_ -

 

 

 

"Hvað ertu að gera hérna?"

 

 

 

What was _Patrick_ doing out here? Bitch, take a look in the mirror.

 

Patrick pulled his hand out of the water, and stuffed the coins and shell in his jacket pocket, all while smiling nervously at the skinny man.

"U-uh...E- _Ekkert_."

 

That's right, nothing suspicious here- just a guy enjoying a rainy day at the lake, totally not taking his fucking pet siren out for a walk- or, no it would really be a _swim actually_ -

 

The man raised his eyebrows with a light, disbelieving smirk, before he turned to look over his shoulder, spotting the horses.

 

"Af hverju ertu með tvö hesta?"

 

Shit.

 

The horses.

 

The _TWO_ horses.

 

Patrick stuttered, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

 

Oh fuck.

 

What could he say?

 

Oh shit, he was an awful liar.

 

"Þ-Þeir...v-voru-"

 

 

 

 

 

"G-Guð minn góður!"

 

 

 

 

 

Holm's eyes snapped wide and they stared past Patrick's shoulder.

 

Oh no.

 

Pete- _no_ , fuck-

 

Patrick turned, panting heavily, eyes wide, mouth hanging open- gaze locked on-

"Þessi f-fiskur er-"

 

 

Yep.

 

 

That 'fish' sure is massive.

 

Pete's tail slid up through the surface of the water, spines and fins tensing, as though it was swimming near the surface, and Patrick had to admit- it did look like a huge fish, or like a terrifying... _sea snake_ , or something...oh you fucking idiot, _Pete,_ _why_ -

 

"Ég ætla að fá netið mitt! Horfðu á það!"

 

Wait.

 

... _Net_...?

 

Oh fuck-

 

Patrick made sure Holm was out of an earshot before leaning down to the water, and whispering loudly. " _PETE_ , _PETE_ \- _WHERE THE FUCK ARE_ -"

 

"Patrick-" Pete was at the end of the pier, instead of at its side now.

It pulled itself onto the wood with fingernail-less fingers scratching into the wood, gills puffing closed, and sealing into its skin. Its back was trembling with the lack of- _whatever the fuck_ it breathed, and as it looked up with soaking hair, wide eyes, and a mouth pulled into a straight line- The siren could only manage one word:

 

 

"Home."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Well, that could've gone better."

 

Pete shrugged, cosying back in the- now, once again clean, bathtub and looking very content to be back there. "Thank you though, my tail hurts less." Patrick nodded slowly, "I'm glad."

Patrick's eyes moved to glance at the tail- before they locked on in a stare instead.

 

It was...different.

 

It had an indent down the center- like when you can see people's spines; There was a dip there, running from where the tail poked out of the water, right down to it's fins.

 

Patrick had felt a slight... _dent_ , there earlier, back when he was lifting the tail from the water, and he hadn’t thought much of it, but- it looked _deeper_ now-

 

Black eyes flicked up to blue ones.

 

Blue ones tore away from the tail to glance at the black ones.

 

"So...uh...about...that thing-"

 

"The 'touching me' thing?"

 

"...Yeah."

 

Patrick stifled a defeated sigh, stepping towards the side of the bathtub, and leaning forwards over the water, face blank as he desperately tried to hide the fear and anxiety he felt clawing at his heart.

Pete raised a hand, eyes wide and mouth open- showing rows and layers of shark teeth.

 

Patrick decided to look away from those.

 

Finally, after what felt like minutes of tentative hovering- Pete's pruned fingertips moved to rest lightly on Patrick's cheek.

 

Pete looked as though it'd just won the lottery.

 

Huh.

 

Do sirens have lotteries?

 

Like, you win some _fish_ instead of-

 

Okay, whatever, Patrick should _not_ be wondering about the siren lottery right now.

 

Pete's fingertips trailed over the skin of Patrick's sharp cheekbone, and he gave small, awe-filled gasps at every millimeter they covered.

 

"C-Can I-?"

 

Pete's hand moved to hover over Patrick's ear, and the human froze for a beat, before nodding shakily as he bit back the terror nestling in the pit of his stomach.

With all the tenderness and care in the world, Pete's fingertips touched the shell of Patrick's ear and the human turned his head to the side to give the siren better access.

 

Pete's rough, damp fingertips traced the helix of the ear gently, before running over all the small tendons and strands of cartilage it could see.

The other pruned hand moved to its own ear- feeling the pointed helix with a furrowed brow.

 

" _Round_...huh..."

 

Pete's fingers kept trailing- now neglecting to ask permission, but Patrick supposed he didn't mind too much.

The ginger fingertips ran across the sharp jaw bone, down the bridge of the nose, travelling down the slope and neglecting to touch, but peering curiously at the nostrils.

 

Pete pulled Patrick's top lip up with its thumb, making the strawberry-blonde suppress his jump and keep still.

The siren squinted at the human teeth.

 

"You only have one set?"

 

Patrick nodded, since his mouth was preoccupied.

 

Pete's free hand moved up to run across its own teeth, seemingly comparing the two.

 

"...We have fifteen."

 

Patrick stifled a whimper.

 

Pete's thumb moved upwards to pull down the skin just below the eye, peering curiously at the iris.

It blinked, seemingly, suddenly aware of its own eyes.

 

"I like human eyes." It tilted its head, "They're all so...different." Pete leaned forwards, both pitch raven eyes peering into one powder blue.

 

"They're like the sky from where I was born, and- there's a..." Pete squinted, "Thing in the middle- it's like the Roman coin I found."

 

Patrick could only blink.

 

Because really, what the fuck was he supposed to say?

 

Pete's eyes moved to the strawberry-blonde strands, but the black flashed with restraint and hesitation, before the creature slid backwards into the bathtub, sinking down into the water- only leaving its chin above the liquid.

 

Patrick straightened his spine again, giving one last strained, awkward smile before turning to move over to the bathroom door when-

 

 

 

 

"I think you're supposed to be soft."

 

 

 

 

Patrick turned, brow furrowed. "Huh?"

 

 

 

 

Pete only smiled.

 

 

 

 


	5. Strange Tales, Strange Tails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it's a little short, I've got a cold and I've been really sleepy all day lol. Next chapter is gonna be a more significant, just think of this as a transition chapter. <3  
> 

 

Patrick zipped up his parka as he glanced through the window, stifling a groan at the dim, cold, windy day.

 

Well, it really was his own fault for moving to _Iceland_.

 

The strawberry-blonde balanced on one leg, clumsily trying to pull a rubber boot on his right foot. That's kinda the shitty part about owning a farm- no matter how cold it is, you still have to go count sheep.

Patrick could understand why medieval farmers used to have eight kids and then proceed to use them as slave labour.

 

Pulling on the left boot was a little trickier, and Patrick ended up leaning his hand on the wall for support, when-

 

"PATRICK?"

 

He jumped a little at the loud, languid voice, before sighing painfully. "WHAT?"

 

 

"I'M BORED."

 

 

An involuntary eye-roll so heavy that it felt like Patrick's eyes were going to fall out.

 

"Fuck- _ENTERTAIN YOURSELF_."

 

"I DON'T KNOW HOW." There was a loud, dramatic groan. "D'YOU EVEN KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I'VE COUNTED THE TILES ON THE FLOOR?"

 

"Ugh-"

 

"THERE'S EIGHTY-TWO. EIGHTY. TWO."

 

For being an etheral mythological sea creature, Pete sure was a little bitch.

 

Instead of continuing the screaming match from across opposite sides of the house, Patrick trudged over to the bathroom, listening to discontent whines and frustrated yells of his name.

 

Patrick opened the door, face blank and eyes glinting with a mix of exasperation and irritation.

 

"What do you want _me_ to do about it?"

 

Pete groaned, shifting in the water with an infantile shrug. Patrick could only roll his eyes again, stepping inside the room and striding towards the creature.

 

"Look, I have work to do-"

 

"I'm so bored." Pete's head thunked back against the metal edge, lip jutting out with closed eyes.

 

Patrick stared for a moment, blinking slowly.

 

 

"Can you read?"

 

 

Pete's eyes snapped open- and Patrick noticed they looked a little lighter, almost dark stormy grey, instead of the pitch black they'd once been. The creature's lip curled and its brow furrowed in anger, as it crossed its arms and puffed out its chest indignantly, raising its head.

 

"Hey what's up with the tone? Do I look stupid to you or something?"

 

Patrick gaped- genuinely surprised for a moment, before shaking his head with slightly confused eyes. "U-Uh, no- I just uh- I don't know if you guys like- _write_ , or anything."

 

Pete softened at that, arms relaxing and gaze moving away with a gentle blink. "...Yeah, I haven't told you much, I guess." It looked up again, nodding with a tilt of its head. "...Uh...sorry, I guess...that's a pretty logical judgement to make, I- uh, I get it."

 

Patrick nodded with wide eyes, glad he hadn't offended the creature with a jaw full of fifteen rows of shark teeth.

 

"I uh...I have some books, if you...if you to-"

 

"Yeah! That'd be great actually."

 

They both smiled and nodded at each other, before the human's face dropped with a squint of his eyes.

 

 

"You're not getting my books wet- you're gonna wear some fuckin' gloves."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete clamped and stretched his fingers, watching the fabric shift on them curiously. Patrick had given him his only pair of gloves- the ones that had been courtesy of Thury, and the blonde had to admit, it had been reluctant.

It looked really damn cold outside, but letting his hands freeze was worth it if his books remained undamaged.

 

He thunked the large pile down onto the chair, before shifting the wooden object closer to Pete's reach.

 

The siren, however, showed absolutely no interest.

 

It was staring at the gloves on its hands with wide, curious, yet somehow amazed, eyes.

It traced the knitted patterns on one palm with its other covered index finger, looking up at Patrick with an inquisitive squint.

 

"What are these for? Y'know, besides, not getting books wet?"

 

Patrick blinked, before deciding to leave the assumption uncorrected and to just answer the question. "Uh...they're so our hands stay warm, when it's like- cold out, or something."

 

Pete glanced out of the window, gazing thoughtfully at the stormy sea before looking back to Patrick. "Weird."

 

Patrick stifled a sigh, along with a roll of his eyes, and placed a hand on the book pile, trying to bring Pete's attention to the solution to its boredom.

 

"Right, just- just read these, and like- call me if you finish 'em, okay?"

 

Pete nodded, leaning over and reaching for the first book, making Patrick glance at the water with a subtle flinch. "J-Just uh- be careful, okay?"

 

The creature nodded with a roll of its eyes and a small smile, Patrick assumed that was good enough of a promise, so he left- bracing himself for the cold weather.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Twenty- ah fuck- seven- ugh-"

 

Patrick's bones shook with shivers and shudders at every icy gust of wind; The sounds of crashing waves, the keening whistles of swirling winds, and nervous bleating of sheep. He'd finally counted them all- after the seventh attempt. Between sneezes and sniffs he'd kept losing track, but now, after painstakingly forcing his eyes open, he was fairly certain he'd counted accurately.

Patrick sniffed, nose cold and flushed red as he climbed back over the rocky hill, with one last glance at the flock; On cold days, there was less work to do with the sheep- they just tended to sit still under their enormously thick fleeces and conserve their heat. Patrick was grateful for that, his joints felt frozen and stiff, and he was not in the best state to be chasing animals around a field.

 

Trudging back down the steep hill with a stumble, Patrick looked up at his house. He smiled a little, remembering the first day he'd moved in; Crying in the train station, Brendon, Skefill letting him buy Hindisvik- Patrick had really gotten lucky.

 

And then, just as he'd been settling into a routine of breakfast, horses, sheep, cows, fishing, read, sleep- his whole world had been turned upside down by the creature that was sat in his bathroom right now.

Three weeks- almost a whole month, and Pete still hadn't told him much about itself, so Patrick made a point of it to find things out: How did they live? What were their habits? Why did the mermaids hate them so much? Did they really read and write? Did they have cities?

 

Patrick burned with so many curiosities and questions, and now he had a genuine, bonafide creature right in front of him, with all the answers to stuff he'd always wanted to know since he was a little kid, reading mythology books under his comforter with a torch.

They'd become amicable enough to each other, and they felt much less cautious around each other too. Sure, Patrick avoided insulting Pete in any way, shape or form- he never wanted to be on the receiving end of those teeth.

 

Patrick glanced over at the bathroom window, spotting a black horse peering inside curiously. "Hey, psst- get." Patrick strode over, and whispered, between patting and shoving the horse's withers firmly with a furrowed brow.

The horse complied and moved away, making Patrick stare sternly for a moment, before glancing through the window.

 

Pete was staring back through curiously, head cocked and eyes wide in something like fearful confusion. It's voice rang out, but was muffled by the glass. "Hey what was that thing?!"

 

Patrick gaped for a second before-

 

_It's literally a siren, it's probably never seen land animals before._

 

"Uhh- It was a horse!"

 

"What's a horse?!"

 

Patrick sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Did you know that the average woman uses her height in lipstick every five years?"

 

"...What?"

 

"Hey, what's lipstick?"

 

"...Uh- it's uh-"

 

"Did you know that slugs have four noses?"

 

"Pete, what are you-"

 

"Did you know that a duck and a rooster were the first passengers in a hot air balloon?"

 

"What-?"

 

"Did you know that in 1386 France, a pig was executed by public hanging for the murder of a child?"

 

"Pete, stop-"

 

"Did you know that a group of 12 or more cows is called a 'flink'?"

 

"PETE-"

 

"What's a cow?"

 

"Pete, just- What are you reading?"

 

The siren smiled guilty, and showed Patrick the cover of the book in its gloved hand.

 

"Fun facts...?"

 

Patrick's eyes went blank and snatched the book, slamming it shut. "Christ...I swear-"

 

"But they're fun!"

 

"Pete."

 

"...Fine."

 

Patrick sighed, moving the pile of books from the chair to the floor carefully, before moving to sit down with notepad and pen in hand.

 

"Uh...Could I- uh...ask you some more stuff?"

 

Pete nodded with wide eyes and a ghost of a smile, streching its tail out with a grimace at the dull ache. Patrick nodded, chewing on his lip for a moment and staring down at the paper intently.

So far, all he had was: 'Siren', '21 years old', and 'Pete the goldfish's name'.

Patrick poised his pen over the paper, looking up with a slight squint.

 

"So uh...you can read, so does that mean you guys have a civilization, or something?"

 

Pete shrugged and shook its head, "No, we kind just live in the water in caves and stuff- Oh! But we do migrate, when the seasons change."

 

Patrick nodded slowly, jaw a little slack.

 

It was finally, truly sinking in that this was an intelligent, sentient, human-like creature.

 

"Uh...So, do you have like...different groups, or...?"

 

Pete nodded again, "Yeah, my parents were from two different groups." It stretched again, grimacing slightly as its tail flicked.

 

"Does your tail-?"

 

"No, no. S'fine, don't worry about it. So, uh...keep going, whatever."

 

Patrick felt a little unconvinced as he watched another pained grimace wrack Pete's face, but he opted to continue. There wasn't much he could do; Painkillers were a no-go (who knows what they'd do to a siren), he couldn't take Pete to a lake, he couldn't put it back in the ocean- His options were limited to 'Keep Pete's mind off of the pain'.

 

"So, uh...what groups were they from? Like, how many groups are there?"

 

Pete looked thoughtful, tilting its head with squinted eyes for a second. "Uh...My dad was from Britannia- I mean, I dunno what you guys call it-"

 

 

"The Atlantic ocean."

 

 

Pete raised an eyebrow, but continued with an exhale. "-And my mom was from Jamaica."

Patrick blinked, "...So it's normal for you guys to travel?"

The siren shook its head frantically, eyes wide, "Nope. My dad was just really dumb. And in love. Same thing I guess."

 

Patrick nodded slowly, and his ears perked up as the creature continued. "It's a really long way from Britannia- Oh sorry, 'The Atlantic'" Pete couldn't help a roll of its eyes as it made quotation marks.

 

"Well it's called the Atlantic-"

 

"Well I just don't think it's fair that things that live on _land_ , get to decide what _we_ call the _sea_ , but whatever."

 

"But-"

 

" _Whatever._ "

 

The siren fell silent, arms crossed, and gaze focused on its tail in a soft glare. Patrick only cleared his throat awkwardly, opting to move the subject away from the offending 'ocean' names.

 

"So, uh...Where did you grow up?"

 

Pete's face brightened considerably- Eyes crinkling at the corners, leaning up, and mouth twisting into an enthusiastic grin.

 

"Oh dude! I grew up in Port Antonio, oh man I miss that place- There was this like, cove, and my parents would always tell us to stay away or whatever- but we would always just-"

 

Pete's face fell blank, and it suddenly looked a little guarded, "U-Uh, sorry I uh- I shouldn't."

 

Patrick blinked in a slight sense of surprise, but nodded, trying to be understanding. He wondered what the creature was hiding, or if it was just nervous to tell a human where it's family was.

 

A human.

 

Nervous.

 

He'd almost forgotten about one, pressing question, that had been niggling at his mind for those three weeks.

 

"So...You- You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to...But...Why- Why did you pull the tail off that fish, d'you remember? You said that humans did that to sirens-"

 

"They do."

 

Patrick sighed quietly, leaning forwards whilst trying to look trustworthy and convincing. "We don't even know you guys exist. I was...I thought I was going crazy- when I caught you. I couldn't believe you were real- I swear- I swear on- on my life- We don't cut your tails off."

 

Pete looked genuinely surprised at that, but quickly furrowed its brow in confusion. "...But, everyone always said...I mean...We had like...ghost stories about humans." Pete shook its head, eyes wide. "L-Like, if you don't go to sleep, a human's gonna find you- s-stuff like that- It can't be fake, seriously, we have ancient stories that like- they're like, accounts of- actual stuff-"

 

Patrick blinked slowly, trying to process the information, while wracking his brain for anything that would make the siren's fear justified.

 

"We don't cut your tails off."

 

"B-But, then- It's all just lies?"

 

Pete looked truly upset, and truly betrayed- perhaps by its own people, or by its own parents. Patrick only swallowed thickly, hoping his next words wouldn't send the creature into a fit of rage.

 

 

"...But I think we used to."

 

 

Pete blinked, face covered in some kind of shock- before it all flooded with relief.

 

"Oh thank-"

 

"-Why are you glad about that?"

 

Pete stared up at Patrick, furrowing its brow at Patrick's bewildered expression; Patrick wasn't sure how being told your species was hunted and sliced in half for trophies warranted relief.

 

There was silence for a moment; Patrick wasn't sure what to say, and Pete was thinking.

 

"...Because...if it had all been fake..." Pete's eyes widened as it stared down into the water blankly. "Then...I would have just, avoided humans- for no reason." Its eyes widened softly. "I would've never met-"

 

Pete stopped, cutting its own thought short, before smiling up at Patrick with a small huff.

 

"Thanks for the books Patrick, I had fun with 'em."

 

"I'm glad Pete."

 

"...Hey Patrick?'

 

"Yes Pete?"

 

 

"Did you know that it's physically impossible for pigs to look up into the sky?"

 

 

 

 


	6. Walkin' The Dog, 'Cause The Cat Is Dead

 

Patrick trudged up the rocky stairs, knitted scarf pulled around his nose, and metal bucket heavy with silvery fish in his hand.

 

Something which had, _admittedly_ , caught him a little off guard, was Pete's appetite; The boy could eat, to put it mildly. And the boy ate like a fucking shark, so that warranted Patrick having to go fishing every day. It also meant that he wasn't selling much of them- on account of most disappearing before the sun went down, and Patrick was therefore having to survive on a diet of oatmeal and fish- but hey, that was better than nothing- And it was definitely better than having a starving creature with a full set of shark teeth dragging itself around the house.

 

 

 

Patrick finally reached the soft, grassy surface again, and stepped across the yard, through the fence, and finally, through the white door- only to be greeted with enthusiastic barking, courtesy of Pancakes; He'd refused to take her out to sea in the winter, partially because storms were big, unnerving possibilities, and partially because she'd probably freeze in the icy winds.

 

The puppy however, really seemed to miss him whenever Patrick left, and any time he was back home, she insisted on trailing behind him, weaving between his legs, and whining at his feet until he paid her any attention.

 

As he tried to stumble over to the bathroom, the puppy seemed insistent on her tasks- even going as far to bite at his pants and shoes to pull him to a stop.

"Will you- Shit- Careful- Pan, I swear-" The puppy only continued her jumping, whines, weaving, biting and barking as Patrick came to the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall as he tried to manoeuvre himself to the bathroom door.

 

 

Now, Patrick wasn't a mean guy, and he definitely wasn't going to yell at a puppy- but he _was_ going to firmly scold it, that he could do.

 

 

"Pancakes." His voice rang out firmly, with the ghost of a tone of warning, but Pancakes only barked happily and nuzzled against his leg. It was almost as if she knew he didn't have the heart to really reprimand her- Puppies were too damn cute for their own good.

"Look, _it's_ probably hungry- okay, just-" Patrick managed to push down on the handle, open the door, and deftly slide through- but not without hearing quick, sharp pitter patters of paws follow him inside, just as he pressed the door shut with a click.

Patrick sighed heavily as he watched the dog weave between his legs again, and she was now making a point of standing on his feet to keep him still, when a voice rang out.

 

 

 

"Why did you call me 'it'?"

 

 

 

Patrick looked up in an instant, blinking in surprise. Pete's voice was blank, but there was a note of hurt shakiness behind it- and it made Patrick's chest constrict.

 

"W-What-?"

 

"-Why did you call me ' _it_ '?"

 

The voice was firmer this time, and the siren turned its head to glare at Patrick sternly. The human could see _something_ \- something like insulted betrayal in the dark, stormy eyes, and he instantly regretted that the siren had heard his dehumanizing words.

 

...But at the same time...Pete _wasn't_ human, so really- what was Patrick supposed to call-

 

"I'm not an 'it' Patrick."

 

Pete looked more hurt now, almost betrayed, and the quiet voice matched the look in its eyes, as it seemed as though it were on the edge of breaking.

 

"I-I- I'm- I'm..."

 

Patrick didn't know what to do. He really didn't. Was he supposed to turn a blind eye to the fact that Pete was an animal-like monster? Was he supposed to just speak to it like it was human?

 

Pete said nothing, and instead, only opted to sink downwards to hide its eyes in the water. "Pete, I'm sorry-"

 

Pete’s voice was nothing but a hiss, and his eyes were nothing more than a glare.

 

"Whatever."

 

Patrick gulped as tense silence fell over them again, and he decided to wait a few quiet moments, before slowly stepping forwards, putting the bucket down with a clack on the slate tiles, and all while cautiously watching Pete.

He stared down, head tilting as he tried to catch the dark gaze, but Pete's eyes remained firm and forwards- and Patrick was surprised to note his tail was completely still, not moving with irritated writhes, as he'd come to expect.

Patrick bit the inside of his cheek, leaning over the water to try and get the siren's attention, when-

 

 

"Pete?"

 

 

Pete rolled his eyes but lifted his head from the water, voice irritated and blank. "What?"

 

"Y-Your tail-"

 

Pete's eyes moved to his tail in an instant, before they widened and his jaw dropped, all memory of insult and pain seemingly melting away. He shifted up in the water, leaning over the area of interest with wide eyes.

 

A deep, short gouge was sliced into the side of his tail, with blue blood spilling from it in steady streams, that floated up to the surface like diffusing clouds.

Patrick was used to the water being tinted blue, as Pete still refused to let him treat his injuries- but, but _holy shit,_ t his was something else entirely. This wasn't a tint, this was goddamn _paint_.

 

Then Pete's hand moved over to the cut, and he buried his thumb inside of the slice.

 

"Pete- _No_ -"

 

A sickening tear was thankfully muffled by the water, and a chunk of flesh came loose in the siren's hand. With wide eyes, and seemingly no pain, Pete lifted the sinews to his face, seemingly analyzing it.

 

 

Patrick felt like this was the end for him.

 

He was gonna pass out.

 

Actually, no- He was probably gonna die.

 

 

Pete prodded, poked and stared- all while Patrick was frozen in stunned silence with a gaping jaw.

 

 

"I think we're actually supposed to eat this- y'know, if we get stranded, or like- if we're _starving_ \- Patrick? Patrick are you-"

 

 

There was skin.

 

There was skin under the tail.

 

Patrick felt dizzy, and then everything went black, the last sound ringing through pale ears being a thud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Patrick? Patrick, can you hear me? Are you okay?-"

 

Patrick's eyes blinked open groggily, and he found himself lying on the floor, face smushed into the cold tile. Pancakes was by his side, barking, nuzzling and licking at his face to wake him up- while a hand shook him gently by the shoulder every now and then.

 

 

"Patrick? C'mon, wake _up_ dude- you're scaring me here."

 

 

Patrick felt weak, but with the resolve that he must have merely _imagined_ the human skin under Pete's mangled tail- he managed to pull himself off of the floor, getting to his feet slowly with trembling hands splayed on the tile, and finally, standing up straight on his shaky knees.

 

"I- I-"

 

 

Shit.

 

The skin.

 

The skin was still there.

 

 

Pete watched Patrick's stare with wide eyes, before seemingly understanding the human's thoughts and smiling broadly. " _Yeah_ , it's freaky dude, watch _this_ -"

 

Pete's fingers dug into the newly formed, rough-edged crater, before tugging another piece away, and revealing a sharp, bony knee underneath.

 

Patrick could only gape- wide-eyed, and shocked to the core.

 

"I- I don't- I-"

 

"...Well...my mom always told me that, that- uh-"

 

Pete looked hesitant, but with a deep exhale and a nod- he continued with a convinced, assured voice.

 

"-That, if we're out of the sea, for like- I dunno, like...a full moon-"

 

"...So like, a month?"

 

"Yeah sure I guess, _if that's what you call it_." Pete couldn't help rolling his eyes, "We uh...We lose our tails, to y'know, let us walk on land if we're like- stranded or something."

 

Patrick blinked, still not fully taking the situation in. "...So...You- You're gonna _grow_ -"

 

"I'm not _gonna_ , dude- I already have 'em."

 

"...What...?"

 

"Like, d'you remember the weird split?"

 

That was enough to scare Patrick enough that he was no longer willing to entertain this absurd situation. He shook his head, all heaving breathing and wide eyes, "Pete- look, okay, I just- I can't deal-"

 

" _Ew_ , dude, look-" Pete pulled another chunk away, successfully making Patrick gag. The new gouge now revealed the top of a taut, muscled thigh, and the pieces of what once had been a tail now floated in the water; They looked just like fish flesh, but instead of the reddish tinge behind the layers, there was darkness, tinged with blue blood instead.

 

"So, uh...do you wanna help me out here, or-?"

 

"W-What?"

 

Pete sighed, "Alright, keep on being a dick then." He sat up as well as he could, moving both hands down to tear at the fish flesh that was, slowly but surely, coming loose. His long fingers clamped around two, large sections, before pulling away with a squelch that made a tsunami of nausea crash through Patrick.

 

The siren held up two handfuls of bloody, torn flesh with a nervous grin, "Hey, uh...so, where can I put these?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"S-So, j-just be careful, okay?"

 

"Dude, I _know_ what to do-"

 

"Just-"

 

" _Whatever_ , just give me your arm, or something, god-"

 

Patrick obliged, holding out an arm- nervous, shaking, pale, and outstretched. Pete gladly took the offer of help, one hand gripping Patrick's forearm, with the other clasped around the metal edge of the bathtub. He exhaled deeply and shakily, before slowly, but surely, straightening his new knees, joints and muscles tensing in anticipation. Pete gulped, the fear running rampant in his eyes, before both hands moved to Patrick's bicep, as he, for the first time in his life- _stood_.

 

Patrick watched with wide, incredulous eyes as Pete straightened his spine. The siren gave a proud half-smile as he looked down at his legs- that were still submerged in tinged, blue water from the knees down.

 

"Okay, so how do I get out of here?"

 

Pete stared up at Patrick confidently, although his eyes held balls of nerves behind them. "Uh- Just, uh-"

 

 

How was he supposed to explain the mechanics of walking? Really?

 

 

"Like uh- bend it...I think? And like, step out of the- the thing."

 

Pete furrowed his brow in confusion, but shrugged and tried to follow the vague instructions. He bent his left leg at the knee, and hands quickly jumping to grip Patrick's shoulders the moment he felt unstable.

Patrick coughed awkwardly, he wasn't completely sure where to look- He was _not_ going down past the stomach- seriously.

 

...Well, that is, if you don't count the few... _completely involuntary_ eye flits downwards, which would promptly make Patrick flush a burning shade of red, and clear his throat nervously- praying with every inch of his soul Pete wouldn't notice.

 

Pete hissed, and the muscles in his leg tensed as he placed his foot on the cold tile. "Fuck- Was that _always_ that cold?" Patrick shrugged, slightly bewildered by the question- Maybe fish had better tolerances to cold or something. "I-I uh- I guess so, I mean, I don't-"

 

His words were cut off with another, loud splash of water, as Pete clumsily broke his other leg out from the confines of the bathtub.

 

Both feet on the floor for the first time in his life, and Pete could do nothing but grin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Okay, okay- just, shit- just, one foot in one hole, other foot in the- other- did you do it?"

 

All Patrick could hear from behind him was stumbles, grunts and crashes into furniture- but he was adamant on _not_ getting up close and personal with Pete.

A final frustrated grunt sounded, before a heavy sigh of triumph rang through the room. Patrick was hesitant to turn, but soon enough, Pete's finger was poking his shoulder.

The human turned, slow and cautious, before sighing in relief that Pete had figured out the complex ritual of putting on a pair of pants.

"Okay, so..." Patrick stepped past the curious, excited siren to root around in his dresser, before pulling out a shirt, and one knitted sweater, from the _completely necessary_ , extremely high amount that he owned.

 

"Since you'd probably _freeze_ walking around _topless_ -"

 

- _And since it would probably be awful for Patrick's health._

 

Patrick mumbled orders as he pushed the soft fabrics into Pete's chest, but Pete only held them awkwardly- unsure and blinking in confusion.

 

"Put those on."

 

"How?"

 

Patrick mostly suppressed a sigh, and grabbed the shirt from Pete's hands first, slipping the collar over his head, and pulling each arm through the holes- brow furrowed all the while.

 

"Now," He stepped back with a nod at the thoroughly impressed siren. "Do the same, but with that." Pete blinked down at the sweater, nodding with a slowly spreading grin, before slipping the collar over his head.

Pete shuffled, grin quickly dropping into a focused pout, before looking up at Patrick with a whine and a jutted lip.

 

 

 

"How'd you do the arms again?"

 

 

 

Patrick stifled an exhale, and moved forwards, resisting the urge to just grab Pete's arms and pull them through roughly.

Instead, he carefully reached through one sleeve, finding Pete's forearm, and slowly pulling it through, making sure the siren was watching and following.

Patrick really didn't think it was _that_ complicated of a process, but Pete's wide, concentrated eyes implied something else.

 

As the arm came free, and was hit by the sunlight shining through the bedroom window, Patrick saw something...well, to put it mildly- _odd_.

 

Scales, running up Pete's arm- along with fins on the sides. Patrick wondered if they'd drop off too, and he couldn't help but grimace as he felt the scales and cartillage under his bare fingertips for the first time.

Patrick glanced up at Pete, who only smiled sheepishly and motioned to his other, trapped arm. The strawberry-blonde sighed, allowing himself a roll of his eyes as he moved to Pete's other side.

 

The siren still had dark eyes, shark teeth, fins and scales- And, while he was still _disconserting_ , it kind of...scared Patrick how human Pete was beginning to look.

He felt a kind of paranoia; All through his life he'd assumed everyone he met was human, but what if that was only a front? What if he'd met non-human creatures? Multiple times? But, he just hadn't known it, because they just looked... _human_?

 

 

It scared him. It truly, deeply scared him.

 

 

Once both Pete's arms were through, the siren grinned, baring rows of shark teeth. Patrick blinked with a furrowed brow; Those teeth, the eyes, the scales, the fins- he'd have to hide them all.

 

Scratch that- He'd have to hide _Pete_ in his whole, freaky entirety.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete spent the whole day walking.

 

Walking around the house, walking the perimeter of every room, pacing, running, marching, stepping- And Patrick was just about losing his mind with every footfall that rang in his ears.

 

Pete paced the living room for the umpteenth time, and Patrick had finally had enough. He had been twitching irritably with every step, before his nerves had been thoroughly been stepped on, and he slammed his book shut purposefully.

 

"Pete?"

 

"Oh dude, this is so _cool_ -"

 

"Pete. Listen."

 

"Ah- uh- Yeah, Patrick?"

 

The blonde blinked slowly, before sighing. He was going to regret this, but Pete was a little like a dog.

 

 

 

Pete needed to go for a walk.

 

 

 

"D'you wanna go outside?"

 

 

 

He'd half expected Pete to start panting and barking in enthusiasm, but instead, he only grinned in excitement, head nodding frantically.

 

Patrick's gaze moved to his eyes. Then to his teeth. Then to his fins.

 

 

Shit.

 

He'd have to morph into a fucking _magician_ to even _begin_ hiding all of that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"This is _sooo_ itchy, dude."

 

Patrick rolled his eyes at the whine that came from beside him, and instead, opted to keep trugding forwards, face nuzzling into his own jacket.

 

Between running the farm, fishing, and just generally- the whole ' _Pete_ ' situation, Patrick hadn't actually gone to see the Hvítserkur yet. Sure, he'd seen it every morning, on the horizon, through his window- but he hadn't made the walk to actually see it up close.

 

 

So, having to walk a literal dog-siren had been the perfect excuse.

 

 

Pete was still a little shaky on his legs, and it somehow reminded Patrick of a baby horse; Pete knew what to do, the mechanics were all there, but the execution was still a little sloppy, and unpracticed.

 

Patrick's gaze moved from Pete's uncoordinated legs, to his face; He'd made the siren cover the lower half of his head with a scarf, along with a hooded parka to cover his eyes. Pete was also forced into a pair of gloves to hide the scales- and he had _not_ been too happy about it, to say the least.

 

Pete did seem happy to be outside though, but he _had_ insisted they stay away from the saltwater, claiming that he didn't ' _want to lose his fuckin' awesome legs dude, are you crazy?_ '

 

 

As they trudged along the damp black sand, Pete had made a habit of looking back at his own footprints, with, what Patrick was completely sure, was the biggest, goofiest smile that had ever been on his face; He could just tell, from the childlike excitement in his eyes, to the crinkled eye corners, to the squinty eyes.

 

It made him smile. Truly, and contently.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"This thing's so cool." Pete stared with wide eyes, moving to walk a circle around the Hvítserkur, staring up with wide, impressed eyes. Patrick couldn't stifle a broad smile as he watched Pete jog a sloppy circle around the formation.

 

"...What is _it_ though?"

 

Patrick huffed in amusement, before shrugging lightly. "It's just a rock." Pete made a small hum of surprise, before tilting his head thoughtfully, and bouncing up onto his toes, with gloved hands stuffed in his pockets.

 

There was only silence for a few moments; Pete paced around, examining every nook and cranny on the formation, while Patrick stared up- deep in thought, and deep in contemplation.

 

"...You uh..." Patrick laughed quietly, with a note of lingering bitterness. "You might think I'm really dumb, but, uh-" The blonde glanced at Pete, before his eyes settled on the Hvítserkur. "I moved here- t-to _Iceland_ , for _that_...I uh...I wanted to see it."

 

Pete blinked, seemingly without judgement, but with a slight note of pain- not doubt from the morning's confrontation. Pete only nodded. "I think that's a pretty good reason."

 

It was the first time someone had actually applauded his decision, and Patrick felt his eyes tear up as he nodded deeply with a smile, holding back the rushes of emotion.

 

 

"Thank you, Pete."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So, Pete- Pete- _listen_ \- focus-"

 

Patrick chased after Pete's gaze- that curiously flitted between the different pillows, and comforters that the strawberry-blonde was dropping onto the couch. The siren finally stared up- ever present easy smile on his face, opting to finally listen to Patrick's urgent, pressing words.

 

"Seriously, use these- Use them _all_ , you're gonna freeze if you don't, okay?"

 

Pete nodded with a slight eye roll, poking at different layers with his index finger, with occasional hums of interest.

 

"...So, _c'mon_ \- it's late."

 

Patrick shepherded Pete to the couch, like a mother putting her kid to bed. The siren awkwardly lay down, turning on his side, and dragging up the many, _many_ blankets to cover himself in a heap. Patrick grabbed one of the many pillows, "Hey, lift your head a sec."

Pete obliged, although, his brow furrowed in suspicion.

Patrick slid the pillow under, before motioning for Pete to drop his head again, with raised eyebrows and a nod. Pete's head thudded down, and suspicion was replaced with a content, sleepy grin, as he nuzzled into the soft fabric. The siren pulled the thickest comforter flush around his neck, smiling and sniffing at the fresh smell of detergent. " _Dude_ , you humans are good at this stuff."

Patrick could only laugh quietly, before giving Pete one last, awkward smile, and bidding goodnight.

"I uh...I'll see you, tomorrow, I guess- Oh, if uh- if you need me, I'm just up there-" Patrick pointed up towards the balcony, and Pete rolled onto his back a little, gazing up at the platform with a firm nod.

Pete turned back onto his side, grinning up at Patrick with squinted eyes. "Can I run around more tomorrow?"

 

 

Actual child Pete Wentz.

 

 

Patrick stifled a grin, along with a laugh, and he managed to settle for a quiet, amused huff, with a nod. "Sure." The strawberry-blonde smiled again, before gingerly stepping back from the living room, and heading to the hallway.

He stared back for a moment, fingers on the old light switch, and a ghost of a smile on his lips.

 

 

"Goodnight Pete."

 

 

Pete's head shot up from behind the couch, face still twisted into dazed, sleepy contentedness.

 

 

 

"G'night Patrick."

 

  
  



	7. A Fever You Can't Sweat Out

 

"Patrick?"

 

A pitiful whine followed the words.

 

"Patrick?"

 

Patrick only groaned and shuffled deeper into his mattress.

 

"Patrick?"

 

Patrick sighed heavily, eyes finally blinking open at the noises.

 

"What?"

 

There was silence for a few moments, and Patrick swore he could hear faint sniffling.

 

 

"I think I'm dying."

 

 

Patrick leaned up at that, eyes squinted and mouth pressed into a thoughtful pout. "What?"

 

"I'm dying- I think, I feel weir-" A loud sneeze cut off the words, and Patrick instantly understood, eyes rolling closed and head dropping back down onto a soft pillow.

The voice was congested, nasally, and most definitely- _sick_.

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

 

"-You're _not dying_. Just- _fuck_ -" Patrick rolled out of bed, and trudged down the stairs, grumbling like a bitter old man the whole way.

 

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his fist, and with a serious case of bedhead, Patrick stepped into the living room, and just couldn't help the tiny, half-hearted glare that made its way at Pete; The siren's face was the only thing visible under the burrow of blankets, and the only sounds that came from beneath the heap were whines, coughs and sneezes- along with frequent, sad calls of the name ' _Patrick_ '.

 

Patrick rounded the couch, squinting down at Pete with clear annoyance; The siren looked up, dark grey eyes wide, sleep-ruffled strands of dark hair, and nose tinged red. Pete's lip trembled and his eyes grew watery as he gave a quiet sob, triggering Patrick's instant ' _comforting a child_ ' mode.

 

"Aw, hey- hey Pete, you're okay." Patrick crouched down, hand flat against Pete's forehead as he checked his temperature, and idly noticing Pete's skin was browner today. The redhead frowned a little, brow furrowing; Pete's skin felt hot under his palm, and he felt a sudden rush of guilt wash over him when he realized the probable cause.

 

The living room was cold _as fuck_ at night- Patrick always got a little sick on the nights he fell asleep there, but since Pete probably had no resistance, or immunity, it was taking a heavier toll on him.

 

Pete nuzzled into the blanket, blinking and letting tears pool at the corners of his eyes, before they escaped and slipped down, while he sniffed and gave a strangled whine. "Hey, hey-" Patrick carded a soft hand through Pete's hair, smiling gently and reassuringly. "You're okay, you're fine." Pete leaned his head back into the touch, still sniffing periodically, before he looked up at Patrick with wide eyes. "What's wrong with me?"

Patrick shrugged lightly, shaking his head. "I uh- I think you're sick." Pete blinked, "What?" The human furrowed his brow, did sirens not get sick or something?

 

"Y'know like, _sick_."

 

"...Are you like, being mean and calling me sick- like...bad gross sick...?"

 

"-What? Pete no-"

 

"Or like, d'you mean the good 'sick'? Like, ‘hey dude, you’re real sick’."

 

Patrick blinked, stifling a roll of his eyes. He had to take it easy, he had to be understanding- Pete wasn't used to this, Pete wasn't used to-

 

"Patrick?"

 

Another pitiful sniff, coupled with another doe eyed look, making Patrick chew his lip, and wrack his brain for ways to help.

Patrick had to work, he didn't have the time or the supplies for home remedies, and on top of that- how was he supposed to treat _a siren?_ What if parecetamol made Pete's head explode? Or what if ibuprofen made his arms fall off?

 

"Just uh...just wait here a sec." Patrick patted Pete's shoulder, before standing and moving over to the kitchen. The least he could do was cold flannels and herbal tea, but beyond that, they were helpless.

 

 

 

 

Patrick watched water boil and bubble in a pan, whilst he listened to the sad whines, and raspy coughs from the living room.

 

He felt bad, seeing as this was partially his fault; He should have known the living room would be freezing, and Pete had a new susceptibility to cold after all...but at the same time, where was Pete supposed to sleep?

 

Just about everywhere, bar the bedroom, got _unbelievably_ cold at night, but was he _really_ supposed to give up his bed for-

 

Another sniffle, paired with a heart-wrenching whine, and Patrick knew Pete would never sleep on the couch again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Here, drink this."

 

Pete sat up, shivering all over, and took the cup with a questioning look, before sniffing at the liquid curiously. He made a face and stared up at Patrick, with a ' _You expect me to drink this?_ ' look.

"Look, it'll help, just-" Patrick weakly rambled encouragement, all while motioning at Pete to drink the goddamn herbal tea already.

 

"What is it?"

 

"It's tea."

 

"What's tea?"

 

"Just drink it."

 

Pete wrinkled his nose and sipped, before his face scrunched up in infantile disgust.

 

" _Pete_."

 

A small, discontent grunt rang from Pete's throat, before he sniffed and shuddered painfully as he drank again...Only to pull away again a few moments later, clamping his eyes shut and shaking his head, all while retching. Patrick furrowed his brow, was it really _that_ bad?...Or was Pete just being _dramatic?_

 

"Is it that bad?"

 

"Yeah..." Pete held the mug out to Patrick, who took it with a stifled exhale, before taking a small gulp, and-

 

Holy shit.

 

It wasn't bad at all- it was pretty fucking great actually, Patrick needed to use those tea bags more-

 

"See? S'gross right?"

 

Patrick shrugged and shook his head, "Not really, it's actually-"

 

"It's _gross_ Patrick. I'm not drinking it."

 

"Fine, it's your funeral."

 

"Wait! Give it back! Patrick, I promise- I'll drink it, I don't wanna die!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Ughh, Patrick-"

 

"What."

 

"Help me, I'm dying-" Pete gave a loud, dramatic groan, before shoving his face into the pillow. Patrick stared for a minute, before rolling his eyes with a heavy sigh, and trudging up to his bedroom.

 

Pete had been lazing around on the couch for most of the morning, respositioning himself in the blankets, coughing, sneezing, and just generally, complaining about being sick- despite not being 100% sure on what ' _being sick_ ' actually meant.

 

Patrick had tried everything: Tea, blankets, cold flannels, water, more blankets, more tea- but nothing seemed to work, and the siren had remained hot and bothered- in a bad way, unfortunately.

 

Or, should that be fortunately...?

 

Patrick did not want to deal with a 'hot and bothered' Pete.

 

Not now. Not ever.

 

 

 

 

As Patrick shrugged on a sweater, he stared out at the sea, brow furrowing in thought.

 

Sea air helps _colds_...right?

 

Patrick frowned in concentration as he strode back downstairs, mind spinning with ideas and remedies, before he reached the metal coat hooks by the front door, and grabbed his jacket. The strawberry-blonde glanced over at Pete as he tied a scarf around his neck; The siren was face down, periodically whining, and his shoulders were jolting with occasional, violent coughs.

 

 

"Pete?"

 

 

The siren looked up weakly, eyes dull and nose red as he sniffed, "Yeah?"

 

Patrick had finally decided what to do, based on some shoddy biology knowledge, and on what his grandfather used to insist when any of his grandchildren got sick.

 

 

Pete had to sweat it out.

 

 

"Can you stand?"

 

Pete shrugged, before slowly slipping out of the blankets with a shiver, and standing on two, slightly shaky, and still generally ungraceful, legs. "Okay, good." Patrick headed back over to the back room, but not without one last glance and stern point back at Pete. "Just stay _there_ , okay?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I'm gonna _burn_ _alive_ , dude."

 

"Don't be such a drama queen."

 

Pete was bundled up in a sweater, scarf wrapped around his nose, gloves covering scaled hands, a hat covering a scaled forhead, a jacket for warmth, and, finally, a hood to cover his unnatural, dark grey eyes- the whole, boiling deal.

Pete only groaned as Patrick opened the front door, motioning him outside. The siren blinked nervously as he stared at the green rushes of grass outside, before finally, stepping forwards, albeit gingerly.

 

Patrick huffed in amusement as he watched Pete crouch down to poke at the grass strands, eyes wide and amazed; He'd probably only seen grass around twice in his whole life- Patrick was pretty sure about that, and he understood that it was only natural to be in awe of something so...alien.

 

Pancakes ran out after Pete, instantly moving to jump up on the siren, before then proceeding to roll around in the grass. Pete laughed, scratching the dog's stomach and reciving happy whines, before he looked back at Patrick with a sniff, and a grin. "So uh...what's the plan?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Work Pete to death- that was the plan.

 

Pete however, seemingly _enjoyed_ being worked like a mule- if the huge beam on his face was any indication. Sure it was covered by a knitted scarf to hide terrifying shark teeth, but Patrick could see the clear glints of joy in the crinkles around his eyes. The siren seemingly hadn't minded carrying huge hay bales, heavy sacks of oats, and frantically chasing down escaping animals.

 

 

Patrick smiled a little as he watched Pete pet a chestnut coloured horse, who in response, nuzzled him curiously.

 

Pete had been truly impressed by all the animals, and had insisted he and Patrick watch them for hours. So they'd find themselves sat on soft, grassy verges, just watching the creature meander around the land; Pete had watched how they moved, heard what noises they made, saw what they ate, watched how they slept- it would have been too mild to say Pete was fascinated.

 

He'd also insisted on making up names for the animals, despite Patrick's insistences that- ' _No, Pete those aren't called 'Beach Chickens', those are seagulls_ ', and ' _That's a sheep, not a 'Land cloud'._ '

 

 

 

 

"These things are so cool, dude." Pete murmured as he crouched down to look at a cream-coloured foal, who huffed at him curiously. Patrick smiled as the horse nickered at the siren, nudging him on the forehead with its nose. "Are you done, Pete? I have to check the chickens." Pete nodded and stood, adjusting his hood down again, and following Patrick over to the small hutches.

 

 

Pete watched Patrick with wide curious eyes, and bobbed his head back and forth as the younger man carefully retrieved the eggs- speckled, white, brown and cream. Patrick put the eggs away into a small box, moving to head back to the house, while Pete stared curiously, and followed with ginger footsteps.

After the eggs were out of breaking distance, and were safely tucked away in a cupboard, Patrick led Pete and Pancakes over the rocky hill; They'd already checked up on the sheep and cows that day, but Pete had been so amazed- and so disappointed when they'd moved on, that Patrick assumed a few more minutes of watching animals wouldn't hurt.

 

 

Patrick sat down on one, jutting, yet broad rock, and gazed ahead as Pancakes ran down the hill to harass the sheep.

Pete took a tentative seat next to the human, smiling a hidden smile awkwardly, before sniffling and staring ahead, awkward smile quickly becoming a grin; Pete had stopped coughing and sneezing, and only a few, quiet sniffles would make an appearance every now and then, so Patrick could assume the siren was almost healed.

 

They both gazed forwards, surveying the view; The day was clear, but although the skies were blue, the sea was grey, however, thankfully, the air was crisp and held no deep cold.

 

Patrick blinked up at the lighthouse that stood on the edge of a cliff face; Painted white, with only a red cage that hid the light itself on the top. It was tall, and imposing against the waves.

Pete seemed to have noticed it too, and promptly pointed forwards, wide eyed. "What's that?" Patrick only shivered at a sudden chilly breeze, and rubbed his hands together, "It's a lighthouse, it uh- It lights up at night, so that boats don't crash."

Pete made a small noise of understanding, nuzzling his way out of his scarf, freeing his shark-toothed grin, and earning a concerned glare from Patrick. "Oh c'mon, there's like- nobody-"

 

 

 

"Útlendingur."

 

 

 

Both men jumped, and went to turn to the voice, before Patrick's hand darted out to shove Pete's scarf up, and to pull his hood down. The blonde turned, smiling nervously, and holding back a glare when he saw- the man with ever bad-timing, Holm.

 

 

"H-Hæ, Holm- h-hvað s-segiru?"

 

 

The man's sharp, narrow eyes moved from Patrick to Pete, squinting suspiciously. Pete only nodded in greeting, eyes and mouth covered under layers of plastic and knitwear.

 

"Hver er þetta?" Holm's mouth was twisted into a ghost of a scowl, and Pete could definitely tell, brow furrowing as he turned to look at Patrick with an indignant, insulted huff. And even though his eyes were hidden, Patrick could tell the siren was definitely irritated, and he decided to get them all away from the source of said irritation as quickly as possible.

 

"F-frændi minn- frá A-Ameríku." Patrick stuttered out the foreign words as he stood, all while whistling for Pancakes, and tugging Pete up by the arm. "Við verðum að fara núna, sé þig seinna."

 

And with that, Patrick stalked back over the hill, pulling Pete alongside him and listening to Pancake's barks as she tried to catch up to them.

 

Home- that was where Patrick wanted to be. That was where they all _needed_ to be. He was not in the mood to get passive-aggressively insulted, and he was not going to let that snobby motherfucker do it to Pete, either. Not now. Not ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick had finally found the heart to cook, and was finally eating something that wasn't oatmeal covered in berries. Instead, he was eating an omelette- and, it was actually pretty good, he'd always been pretty good at cooking.

 

Pete meanwhile... _Well_ , Pete hadn't lost his niche for raw fish.

 

 

Patrick tried to focus on his omelette, and ignore the sounds of crunching fish bones coming from across the table. He glanced up for a moment, shuddering as he watching Pete chewing on a fin. Thankfully, he'd caught a few sea bass the day before, so their supply of fish was still high enough that Pete could survive for at least another week...but going out fishing again was inevitable, he supposed.

 

"Hey Patrick?" Pete garbled through a mouthful of fish tail, making Patrick hold back a retch. "Yeah, Pete?"

The siren smiled, sharp fish bones poking out through his teeth, before he spoke with a nod. "...Thanks for today, I enjoyed it."

Something sounded held back- left unsaid, perhaps, but Patrick blinked anyway, slightly caught off guard by the grateful tone, and soon enough, he smiled kindly, nodding deeply. "No problem, Pete."

The siren nodded back, grinning again, before crunching his jaw down around the fish's head, making Patrick press a fist to his mouth and stifle a spew, clenching his eyes shut.

 

He should teach Pete how to use a knife and fork.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In order to make sure Pete didn't get sick again, Patrick was left with two options: A- He gave Pete every blanket, comforter, pillow, cushion, jacket, sweater- and just about every piece of knitwear he owned; Meaning Patrick would probably freeze to death before the night was through, or B- Let Pete sleep upstairs. In bed. Next to him.

 

 

Yeah, he wasn't ecstatic about his options here.

 

 

When he heard Pete whine, and cough pitifully while washing the fish blood off his hands in the kitchen sink, Patrick had finally resolved to take option B, despite being worried about all the awkwardness it could, and _would_ , probably entail.

 

"Here." Patrick handed the siren a spare toothbrush, heaped with a small bead of toothpaste- because, _goddamn_ , he was not sleeping next to someone who's mouth smelt like fish- no matter how sick they'd get.

 

He also wasn't sleeping next to someone who smelled like sheep, horses, cows and chickens- but he'd left the task of taking a bath to Pete.

 

Pete looked as though he was really struggling while he brushed his teeth, and he'd periodically whine, and complain that, ' _It's getting stuck between my rows, dude_ '. Patrick would only cross his arms and lightly glare, adamant that Pete had to at least _smell_ decent before he even touched his pristine mattress.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Minty-fresh, and Pete was constantly sighing deep breaths into his hand, nose wrinkling at the new smell. "It's hygienic, Pete." Patrick remarked, as he dug through the masses of unfolded, strewn clothes that littered his drawers; Patrick had never been a neat guy, sure he could just about keep a house from looking like a pigsty, but things usually got... _cluttered_... _fast_.

 

Since Pete was _not_ sleeping the soaked, damp towel, that was currently wrapped around his body and hanging off of his shoulders, Patrick had the tricky task of finding spare clothes for the siren.

After a lot of searching through questionable band merch and jeans, Patrick eventually pulled up grey sweatpants, a black pair of underwear- which he made a note _never to wear again_ , and his cousin's old college hoodie. He strode over to Pete, pushing the fabrics into his hands and turning away to look out of the window, just to give the siren some privacy.

 

Behind him, Patrick heard the rustling of a towel, followed by the telltale, struggling, desperate sounds of Pete trying to put clothes on. He opted to focus on the view instead, and stared out at the scene with a faint smile; It was beautiful, it truly was- even in the darkness-

 

 

A tap on his shoulder, and his thoughts were cut short.

 

 

Patrick turned instantly to see Pete, cozied up in a hoodie and smiling at Patrick tiredly, a few of his longer, more unruly teeth poking out through the seam of his lips. His hair- that was _definitely_ getting way too long and that Patrick made a note to _cut_ , was a little disheveled from his futile tatics of trying to get shirts on, and his skin was getting warmer, turning to a richer shade of caramel with every second that passed.

 

After realizing he'd been gaping at Pete like an enamoured schoolgirl for a good, solid three minutes, Patrick tore his gaze away and moved past the siren, overwhelmingly glad the dim lighting hid his the pink flush on his skin.

 

 

Patrick pulled back the layers of covers, jolting back in surprise as Pancakes leapt up to cosy up in her favourite spot, nuzzling into Waffles happily, curling up around the puffin, whilst wagging her tail softly, and eyes wide and innocent as she stared up at Patrick.

He huffed in amusement, and deftly moved to the free side of the bed, sliding in, and pulling the dog towards him, to give Pete some much needed space. He looked up to find Pete staring at the puppy, amusement glinting through his eyes as he grinned. Patrick turned onto his side, facing his back to Pete, and ears prickling as he heard the telltale shuffling of someone getting into bed beside him.

Two hands, one ghostly pale and one warm brown, pulled the heaps of covers up, to cover all three inhabitants of the bed.

 

Patrick heard shuffling, sighing, twisting and turning for around half an hour, before silence overtook the room.

 

"...Goodnight Patrick."

 

"Goodnight Pete."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick's eyes blinked open softly of their own accord, and he found himself staring at the balcony banister, that stood a short way away, guarding him from falling to his death from the second floor.

 

Patrick was slightly annoyed his body had decided to wake up. It was still dark, from what he could see, and he was _so fucking tired_ -

 

Warmth.

 

The warmth was gone, which meant... _Pete_ -

 

Patrick turned onto his back, head twisting searchingly to see-

 

 

Pete wasn't gone, he'd just left the bed.

 

 

Pete was sat in front of the window, cross legged and hunched forwards- staring at the northern lights which lit up the sky.

 

Patrick's eyes widened, and he sat up, gaze constant, and firmly locked onto the view.

 

 

This was the first time he'd seen them- ever. And goddamn, were they _fucking amazing_.

 

 

Patrick crawled out of bed, eyes frozen forwards, as he timidly moved to sit beside Pete.

 

They said nothing to each other, and only watched the green and blue lights shine across the sky, alongside, and weaving with the masses of the white bright pricks of stars. The lights shone down on the sea, making the waves appear to be glowing as they rocked backwards and forwards against the rocky, black coast. And, in the near distance, Patrick could make out the Hvítserkur- surrounded and entrapped with a haze of teal light.

 

 

It was the most amazing thing Patrick had ever seen.

 

 

Well. Almost.

 

 

Pete firmly took first place.

 

 

And no, not in a ' _You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen_ ' way, it was more in a ' _Holy shit, I can't believe you exist, what the fuck_ ' kinda way.

 

 

There was only more, comfortable silence, filled with thoughts of awe and inspiration, when a quiet, tentative voice, cut through the air- almost as though it were scared to disturb the majesty going on behind the glass.

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

"Yeah Pete?"

 

"...What is that?"

 

"The northern lights, they're uh- the result of colliding gas- uh... _particles_ , I think. They come from the sun, I think, I'm pretty sure...actually..."

 

Patrick's words faded awkwardly at Pete's fake noise of understanding, along with his affirming nods, and, finally, baby-blues and pitch-blacks flitted back to focus on the lights.

 

There was only more silence. Comfortable. Appreciative. And Patrick wasn't sure what the glowing warmth buzzing under his skin was the result of.

 

Was it the lights? Or...was it-

 

The lights.

 

It was definitely the lights.

 

It definitely wasn't P-

 

 

Nevermind.

 

 

Patrick begged his brain to shut up, and just enjoy the moment.

 

Warm, safe, in company, finally fulfilling his dream, and with the northern lights splayed in the sky in front of him.

 

 

He was happy.

 

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

"Yeah Pete?"

 

"...I'm glad I came to Iceland."

 

 

"...So am I."

 

 

 


	8. So Say, What Are You Waiting For?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sat in a waiting room for like, four hours today, so I haven’t beta read this yet, but I will tomorrow, just bear with me <3 Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Update- New and improved y'all.

 

Patrick's eyes blinked open slowly, fair eyelashes fluttering under the sunbeams that shone into the room through the window.

He sniffed, and his nose wrinkled involuntarily at the strands of- now _short_ (courtesy of an amature haircut from Patrick), dark hair that pressed against it. Patrick shifted his eyes down to see Pete, arms wrapped around his waist, and legs tangled with his own.

 

Two months had passed, and they'd fallen into a pretty domestic routine together, becoming inexplicably comfortable with each other- almost to the point of having a mild, chilled out friendship.

Seeing as they didn't have anyone else to confide in, they'd always accidentally fall into deep conversations, they'd ask each other for advice, and they'd discuss things constantly.

Pete had also insisted on accompanying Patrick to work on the farm, every. Single. Day- And Patrick found that admirable, to say the least; Given the choice, he was pretty sure he wouldn't willingly get up in the small hours to go chase down runaway sheep every day.

 

In addition to his enthusiastic helping, Pete had also made a habit of cuddling with Patrick at night, and while Patrick had planned to call him out about it after the first time it'd happened, he'd had to admit- Pete was warm. And Iceland was cold. So he'd eventually decided to let it go, and just let the siren cling to him.

It seemed to benefit them both in a way, Patrick slept warmly, and Pete actually... _slept_ ; The siren had confided that he'd always had trouble sleeping, so Patrick supposed that if they were both... _okay_ with the situation, then nothing about it had to be awkward.

 

 

...Well, fine, it was still _a_ _little awkward_ , but Patrick valued warmth more than personal space.

 

 

He heard a quiet yawn from Pete, who instantly shuffled his face into Patrick's neck with a happy sigh.

 

"Morning."

 

"Morning."

 

Both voices were croaky and ragged, both from cold air, and from sleep. Pete suddenly made a small noise of discomfort, sitting up and pressing a hand to his jaw, making Patrick hold back a sad whine when Pete- _the human water bottle_ , moved away. Instead of complaining and making grabby hands at the siren, Patrick leaned up on his forearms, cocking his head.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

Pete nodded, glancing back over to Patrick, whiskey brown eyes shining in contentedness. "S'just the last tooth."

 

 

Patrick nodded, and gazed; Pete eyes, ah yes, that had been another nice little development. The raven black had turned to stormy grey, the stormy grey had turned to mouse grey, the mouse grey had turned to white- and finally, a pupil and an iris had emerged.

They'd been milky at first, a cream iris and a blue pupil, that made him look blind- but slowly but surely, the pupil turned to shiny black, and the iris had dove into a rich, sparkling whiskey-brown.

 

Patrick was entranced, to say the least, and the recurring thought that would always drift through his mind was: Were those Pete's real, natural eyes? Or was he just putting on the front to appeal to Patrick?

Pete had explained, over _butchering_ a halibut one evening, that sirens could mimic voices, and change certain features to lure people in.

Historically, they might have mimicked a woman's voice to lead a sailor into a cave, where they would promptly eat him alive- but, that had been long before sirens discovered they could live on fish just as well as they could on humans.

And it also explained why Pete ate _so many damn fish_ \- he was eating the amount of energy that a one human gave.

_Every day_.

While that had been pretty terrifying to find out- honestly, it didn't matter to Patrick. Those goddamn eyes were beautiful, and even if Pete was just luring him in, with the resolve to murder him one day- he couldn't bring himself to care too much.

 

And _that_ was pretty freaky in itself.

 

Pete made him feel dazed in an odd, but not _unpleasant_ way. It was like buzzing. That was the best way he could describe it; Soft, therapeutic, tingling buzzes that ran under his skin- and the buzzes would only turn to electric sparks when Pete touched him, or looked him in the eye. Or just talked to him. Or was just in the _same room_ as-

 

Patrick wasn't stupid, and he knew there were only two, possible explanations for the buzzes:

 

  1. Pete was using weird siren tricks on him to make him sleepy and easy to murder.



 

Or, the very unlikely- completely not true, totally incorrect, very untruthful-

 

  1. He had a crush on Pete.



 

And since Patrick was not a blushing schoolgirl, he was pretty sure option 1 was the most logical.

 

Well, maybe not the most _logical_ , but the one that made the most _sense_.

 

Uh-huh- that was the option he was going with. 100%.

 

 

"Ah, fuck-" Pete held his mouth open with one, hooked index finger, whilst the other hand's digits fished around. Patrick blinked, grimacing a little and opting to look away. This was never pleasant; After the week that Pete had developed legs, his shark teeth had started falling out too- although, they'd often need some coaxing-

 

And by coaxing, Patrick meant Pete would fucking _pull them out_.

 

Yeah.

 

_Horrifying_.

 

However, when a white shark tooth would finally fall away, it'd reveal a slightly big, white, human tooth instead.

 

It was weird.

 

The whole fucking situation was fucking weird.

 

...But Pete was getting easier to look at; His spines had fallen away after his tail, and so had his fins, and his pointed ear ends had been one day to the next- Everything out of the ordinary was gone, but _the scales_ \- that had stubbornly remained tethered to his skin, although, slowly but surely- they _were_ starting to thin out.

 

Patrick would find grey, black and clear scales dotted all around the house; He'd find them in books, in laundry, in plugholes, in cups, in bowls- literally _everywhere_. And while he was starting to get tired of it, he also knew it meant the pesky scales would soon be gone completely.

However, Pete's gills had remained too- and he still insisted on lying underwater in the bathtub for hours, or going to the lake and just sitting on the bed until his skin pruned in a familiar way.

 

Patrick knew some part of Pete missed his tail- and he understood entirely. Something that had been with you your whole life, something that defined you, something that gave you freedom.

 

But, both Pete and Patrick had to admit- the legs were _really fucking convenient_.

 

 

The strawberry-blonde heard a faint ' _pop_ ', and he grimaced, before jolting over to see Pete holding a shark tooth, covered in blue blood. The siren grinned, turning to Patrick and hooking his index finger around his cheek, pulling in open to show Patrick the new, white molar- edges still covered in clotting blood.

 

"They're all gone now." Pete let his cheek fall closed, and his eyes moved back at the bloody shark tooth in the palm of his hand. Patrick nodded, finally sitting up and shivering a little at the cold air, "Yeah they are." He noticed Pete's quiet tone, and generally, contemplative disposition.

Patrick put a soft hand on the siren's shoulder, voice gentle and assuring. "Are you... _okay?_ "

 Pete smiled with melancholy, but nodded, "I'm fine..." The smile broadened into a half grin. "I'm less freaky now, right?"

 

Patrick only laughed loudly and suddenly, eyes clenching shut as he soundlessly clapped his hands once, and when he settled down, the baby-blues crept open again. He found Pete staring at him, face painted with a soft grin, and an unfamiliar, yet _gentle_ , look in his eyes. However, Patrick didn't have much time to analyze the look there, because Pete quickly turned away, head bowing as he cleared his throat. Pete poked at the tooth with the fingers of his free hand.

 

"It's kinda messed up huh?"

 

"There's no ' _kinda_ ' about it, Pete- It's _one hundred percent_ messed up."

 

Quiet laughter bounced off the walls, before the sounds descended, and they sat in silence for a few moments- both gazes eventually drifting the the most interesting thing in the room- the tooth. After a short, quiet time, Patrick's eyes widened, and he spoke up, suddenly remembering that he had certain responsibilities.

 

"We should get to work."

 

Pete nodded, smiling up at Patrick easily with an amused huff, and Patrick found himself beaming back- completely involuntarily.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete sighed happily as he placed the escaped, dappled grey chicken back into the pen, grinning proudly at himself as he pet the small bird's head, before straightening up and turning to smile at Patrick.

The blonde yawned slightly, bracing at the cold, but he smiled back anyway, motioning his head for them to retreat back inside the house.

They'd have to go fishing today, it was important to always keep the stocks up. While Pete really liked following Patrick around, and usually did so without complaint- he always looked nervous when they pushed the boat out.

Patrick wagered it was either due to being afraid to fall in, or, being afraid to be attacked by prowling mermaids again. He understood, and he'd often tried to convince the siren to stay at home- but Pete was stupidly stubborn, and would always soldier out to the boat anyway.

Patrick admired his bravery, he didn't think he could have done the same, if he were in Pete's situation.

 

 

 

 

"Dude, chickens are weird."

 

Patrick furrowed his brow, but couldn't help the bemused smile that crawled onto his face, and he nodded slowly, really considering the everyday oddity that was- _a chicken_. "Uh...Yeah, I guess they are, actually."

As the eggs were carefully put away into boxes, the two chatted idly, a few laughs escaping now and then- Pete was home. He was true, good company- and Patrick loved h- it.

 

_It_.

 

The calm stide back over to the house was suddenly interrupted by pelting rain, that began pouring down over the land in buckets. The two burst into panicked laughter, and darted through the wooden gates, occasionally slipping onto their knees due to the newly slippery grass, that would slide under their soles.

Covered in grass stains, soil and water, they finally stumbled inside. They were soaked to the bones, but quickly moved to put the egg boxes on the kitchen counter- and the two glanced at each other, before they started laughed inexplicably, and shit, Patrick's chest felt so fucking warm and light.

Pete gave him a goofy half grin, hair dripping and beaded with water droplets, and the sight only made Patrick laugh, eyes squinting shut as he shook his head with a quiet exhale, heading over to the bathroom.

 

 

 

Two fresh towels later, both men leaned around in the kitchen, pulling off wet sweaters, and drying drowned strands.

Patrick pulled the towel over his head, hands tightening as he rubbed frantically, holding back small groans at the feeling. He finally tugged the towel away, and laughed as he found Pete mimicking the movements with his own hair and towel; The siren was still a little clueless in some aspects, so he usually took the ' _Monkey see, monkey do_ ' approach, and goddamn, if Patrick didn't find it adorabl- funny.

 

_Funny_.

 

Patrick's ears pricked up at a sudden, loud- and a _little hurried_ , knocking sound, ringing into the house from the white, wooden door. His head swivelled over to the door, and his eyes widened as he blinked softly. He- almost _cautiously_ , stood up straight from the counter, and moved over the white wood.

As a rule, he'd established that they neglect opening doors to strangers- considering Pete might open the door shirtless, and show the whole fucking world his scales and gills. Yeah, Patrick didn't want to risk that. At _all_.

However, as the knocking got more hurried, he automatically twisted the handle and crooked the door open, grimacing at the rain, before his expression softened impossibly.

 

 

 

Brendon.

 

 

 

"H-Hey S-Stumph."

 

"Oh my god- Shit- Come in, fuck-"

 

Patrick instantly jumped to the side, door widening to allow Brendon enough of a window to pass through.

The older man shuddered from the cold, and while he was soaked to the bone- he still mustered a bright, beaming grin for Patrick. "H-Hey little dude- how ya b-been?" Brendon's teeth chattered from the freezing rain, and all the fuzziness clouding Patrick's mind fled- only to be replaced by concerned realization. "SHIT- A towel, you need a fu- WAIT THERE-"

 

Patrick darted away, disappearing down the hallway, and completely forgetting the fact that he'd left Pete and Brendon alone in a room.

 

 

Said realization finally kicked in when Patrick's fingers touched the soft bristles of a blue towel- eyes shooting wide and jaw gaping as delayed, choked words of protest escaped him.

 

He heard voices.

 

Oh fuck.

 

"BREN- I MEAN- PETE?" Patrick's hand shot out to grab the towel as he sprinted back down the hall, trying to stifle the pounding in his chest, and trying to calm the heart clattering against his fragile ribs.

 

"ARE YOU-"

 

He rounded the corner, socks skidding on the wooden floor, and eyes still wide as his free hand clasping around the edge of the wall. His heart stopped at the sight-

 

They were talking.

 

Oh no- shit, no- _please_ -

 

"Hey little dude- Shit, Patrick, _are you okay?_ "

 

Patrick suddenly realized he must look insane, or terrified- _or both_ ; Eyes wide, literally having just sprinted a marathon down the hall, and panting- and shit, his face was probably _red_ too- _goddamnit_ -

 

"Patrick?" Pete spoke this time, eyebrows raised softly. "Are you okay?"

 

The redhead nodded, jaw still gaping- and both men still looked unconvinced, so to distract them, and to put the situation back on some form of _rails_ , Patrick stepped forwards, passing the towel to Brendon. "Here- you'll get sick if you don't...uh..."

 

Okay.

 

The whole ' _distract them from your very obvious paranoia_ ' thing? Yeah, not going great so far.

 

Both older men glanced at each other, with lightly suspicious furrowed brows, before Brendon took the towel with a broad smile, and gratefully dried his hair.

 

"So uh...how was it at Draugen?"

 

Brendon grinned, one towel-covered hand still ruffling through his hair as he nodded slightly. "It was crazy dude- but hey-" The older man nodded at Pete, "Didn't tell me you had a cousin."

"C-Cousin...?" Patrick's eyes widened of their own accord, and he stared at Pete for a moment; The siren's face was painted with an _almost_ mocking smile, and his eyes worked to hide a tiny glint of smugness.

 

Brendon furrowed his brow, "Yeah dude, your cousin- this guy- _Pete?_ " Pete's smile turned into a grin, and he shrugged. "Ah, he just doesn't like admitting we're related."

Brendon's brow furrowed again, deeper this time, in concern and mild outrage. He gazed at Pete for a moment, before glancing over at the blonde, with questioning eyes. "-Dude, _why_ -?"

 

Patrick shook his head quickly, "N-No, uh- yeah- This- This is my cousin, yeah- that's- yep-" The redhead stared at Pete for a second, eyes pressing and wide. "Can uh- Can I talk to you? For a sec? Cuz?"

 

Pete nodded, giving Brendon a smile, before Patrick pulled him down the hallway by the shirt, dragging him into the back room, and carefully clicking the door shut- as to not slam it, and subsequently draw Brendon's attention.

 

As soon as they were alone, Patrick turned to Pete- finger pointed at his chest accusingly, as his gaze burned into Pete. "What did you say?"

 The brightness that had been present in Pete's eyes faded, but the smug grin remained- although it flickered occasionally. "Who uh...Who's that guy-?"

 

" _PETE_." Patrick's voice was a harsh, vicious whisper. " _WHAT DID YOU SAY?_ "

 

The siren sighed, eyes rolling subtly, "That we're _cousins_ , that's you told that weird guy, remember-?"

 

"You- You speak Icelandic? Like, you _understood_ him?"

 

Wow, that would have been nice to know, asshole.

 

Pete shook his head with a slight scoff of disbelief, and a quick roll of his eyes. "Dude, I can mimic shit- _remember?_ "

 

There was silence for a moment, before Pete tried his original question again, eyes more serious this time.

 

 

"Who's that guy?"

 

 

Patrick blinked, suddenly noticing Pete's expression; It was a little sad, a little somber, and a little pained- and it was desperately trying to hide those three emotions, that would only escape in momentary slithers.

 

"He's uh- He's my friend, he- he helped me get this house."

 

Pete nodded, but said nothing, eyes flickering over in a glaze something miserable. Patrick felt as though he was holding something back, but he didn't have the time to press it right now. Brendon- his friend that had been gone for _three whole months_ , was only a room away, and frankly, Patrick didn't have time to deal with Pete's melancholies.

 

Ouch, okay, a little harsh.

 

To rephrase- Patrick cared about Pete. A lot. But he also cared about Brendon. A lot. And seeing as he'd spent three, uninterrupted months with Pete, Patrick assumed the siren could wait.

 

 

"Okay. Just- Just stick to that, and let me make stuff up- okay? Just go along with _everything_ I say- got it?"

 

 

Pete nodded, mouth pulled straight, and eyes narrowing for a split second.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So, what made you come out here, Pete?"

 

Patrick froze.

 

Shit.

 

Okay, _admittedly_ \- he'd kinda forgotten that Brendon could just ask Pete stuff directly. Oh fuck, Pete just don't fuck it u-

 

"Well, when I heard this guy-" Pete patted Patrick on the shoulder cheerily, making the human hold back a glower, "-Was moving to _Iceland_ , I just had to come see him. Patrick and I...we were uh- always real _close_ , y'know? More like brothers than cousins, isn't that right, 'Trick?"

 

'Trick.

 

Pete, you absolute son of a bitch.

 

"Yeah," Patrick smiled contently, trying to hide the small flames of rage in his eyes, and trying to fight off the urge to shove Pete's hand away from his shoulder. "Yeah, uh...after Pete dropped out of school-"

 

That earned a glare from the siren, but Patrick's smile only broadened, eyes flooding with sudden satisfaction.

 

"-I was uh...the only one that didn't like, _disown him_ , y'know?"

 

Brendon nodded, eyes wide, and totally believing every word- and Patrick felt pretty proud of himself, he must have gotten better at lying at some point. Huh.

 

"So, you guys have known each other for a really long time then?"

 

They both nodded, but Pete beat Patrick to the punch, voice ringing out first. "Oh yeah, ah this guy-" Pete clapped a hand on Patrick's shoulder, "If we're talkin' childhood stories- This kid used to cry _ALL_ the time, seriously."

Brendon laughed, albeit good-naturedly, and he gazed between the 'cousins', " _Really dude?_ Ah, well, I guess it's not that hard to- Like, the first time we met, I found him crying in a bathroom, so-"

 

Only for a split second, Pete's face dropped and his eyes flashed with something like worry, before the cheery expression sprang back into place.

 

Patrick only glowered for a moment, looking at the other two men over the rim of his coffee mug, before smiling sweetly, and speaking again. "Hm, yeah, another interesting childhood thing, uh- _Pete_...has always had some... _IQ issues_." Brendon made a small noise of understanding, eyes wide. Pete only glared, but Patrick only continued with a smile, "It was 'cause his dad uh- dropped him, like- _on his_ _head_ , when he was like- _a week old_...? That was it, wasn't it Pete? A week old?"

 

Pete's eyes narrowed for a second, eyes obviously displeased. "Yeah."

 

Brendon's loud laugh rang out again, "Holy _shit_ dude-"

 

The 'cousins' shared a heated look for a moment, before they both dropped their gazes to their hands, which were wrapped around coffee mugs, fingers scratching over the miniscule cracks in the ceramic.

 

 

"You're both over from Chicago then, huh?"

 

 

And the lies broke out again.

 

All sorts of absurd, embarrassing tales were effortlessly weaved into the conversation, only getting more fierce every time Brendon asked another question.

 

"Patrick used to wet himself when he was a kid- like _ALL the time_ , dude."

 

"Pete used to cry when people cursed."

 

"Patrick used to _chase midgets around_ for _some_ reason-"

 

"Pete used to kill birds. I think he had pretty psychopathic tendencies. I mean, it's a _miracle_ he only became a highschool dropout, and not like- _a serial killer_ -"

 

After almost three whole hours of derogatory back and forths- that only got more absurd as time went on, and that only served to make Brendon laugh harder every time, the man had raised a good point, woven into a conversation about child Patrick's eating habits:

 

 

"Hey, have you guys gone fishing yet?"

 

 

Fuck.

 

No.

 

No they hadn't- they'd gotten far too involved in their imaginary 'cousins' backstory to really notice that it would be getting dark in just over an hour.

 

"Shit." Patrick grimaced as he looked out through the window, gaze casting over the darkening sky. Brendon only shrugged, "Hey, don't sweat it dude, you can go tomorrow." Patrick nodded, eyes flooding with gratefulness at not getting scolded, and he decided to change to topic to something that would make him feel less shitty about his awful time management skills.

 

 

"Hey, how was it at the oil rig? You said it was-"

 

 

"-Oh dude, lemme tell you- the craziest shit happened, oh god-"

Patrick grinned broadly, listening to Brendon's story attentively and happily, with loud occasional laughs and focused eyes.

And because of all his attention was on his dearly missed friend, he completely neglected to notice the split-second, glaring looks Pete would cast in their directions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"See ya tomorrow Patrick! Bright and early!"

 

"Ughhh-"

 

Brendon only laughed loudly at Patrick's dramatic, and sarcastic groan, before the strawberry-blonde perked up again, grinning broadly. He watched Brendon get into his car, and drive the familiar route over the far hill, and once, and _only once_ , the car was completely out of sight, did Patrick return to the house. He trudged through the muddy grass, before looking up at the doorway to see Pete- stone-faced, unamused and blank.

 

Patrick's brow furrowed at the sight as he stepped inside, tugging off his jacket and placing it on one of the shiny coat hooks. The redhead blinked as he saw Pete had stalked off to the kitchen, and was now roughly washing a mug; His shoulders were hunched, his arms were tensed, and his gaze was firm.

 

"...Pete?"

 

No response, just angrier scrubbing.

 

Patrick furrowed his brow softly and stepped forwards, leaning his hand on the counter beside the sink, and trying to catch the whiskey-brown gaze. The stare eluded him however, so Patrick stood up straight, and crossed his arms, with gently narrowed eyes.

 

"Pete, _what's wrong?_ "

 

Pete's throat visibly constricted, and his Adam's apple bobbed as the siren swallowed deeply. Brown eyes flitted to Patrick, then back to the white mug- that was already clean, but that he refused to stop scrubbing.

Patrick glared and snatched the mug from his hands, drying it with a kitchen towel while murmuring in irritation, and shaking his head.

 

Quick footsteps moved away, and Patrick turned just in time to see Pete ducked down through the hallway. "Pete?" Patrick exhaled deeply and followed, chasing the man's footfalls with a soft glare. "Pete, just _talk to me_."

 

The thundering footsteps headed up the staircase, and they rang through the hallway. Patrick instantly ducked into the back room, running up to steps to follow the older man.

 

"Pete, will you-" Patrick sighed out, before his words died in his throat, and his voice stopped abruptly. Goddamnit Pete was shirtless- and it always made Patrick's breath hitch, seriously, _fuck this guy_.

Pete had his back to Patrick, and his hands were busy searching in a messy dresser drawer; His prominent shoulder blades- tan and smattered with reflective scales that shone in the moonlight, were still hunched and tensed, and Patrick could practically smell the irriation that radiated off of the siren.

 

 

"Pete."

 

 

Pete's facade faltered a little as his head flicked to the side, but soon enough, the stone demeanor had returned. Patrick was starting to get mad.

 

Seriously, what had he done to warrant this behaviour? What had he done that was so terrible?

 

The human strode over, chest puffed up in confidence, and brain whirring with annoyance, before he put a firm hand on the siren's shoulder, forcing Pete to turn and look him in the eye.

Patrick's brow was furrowed, but his hand remained steadfast as he grabbed Pete's already drooping jaw with his free hand, and forced the man to look him in the eye.

Without many other options, Pete's whiskey eyes flicked upwards, clouded with something truly miserable- only sadness, instead of infuriated flames Patrick had assumed would be present.

 

The blonde's voice, demeanor, and eyes softened immediately, "Pete? Are you okay? What's wrong? You can talk to me-"

 

"I'm fine, Patrick. Just tired, god- _get off_ -" Pete rolled his shoulder violently, pulled his chin away from the grasp, and shoved past the human, moving over to the bed and crawling in, before curling up with a sniff Patrick didn't hear.

 

The strawberry-blonde glared at Pete's back for a minute, before sighing, and opting to go to bed too. He grabbed his pyjamas from the dresser and jogged downstairs, opting to get changed in the back room- because he was _not_ risking accidentally getting naked in front of Pete.

 

Pyjamas firmly in place, and Patrick finally wandered upstairs again, yawning idly as he reached the free side bed- quickly smiling down at Pancakes, who had taken her position, snug between both men. Patrick pulled back his side of the layers, and his gaze cast to Pete- who had purposefully turned onto his other side to avoid looking at the human, and as Patrick shuffled into bed- he felt hurt.

Pete meant a lot to him- he really did, and he really didn't understand why the siren was so upset with him.

So, Patrick decided to try once more.

 

 

"Pete?"

 

 

No response.

 

Patrick made a tiny, sad noise of understanding, before turning on his side, back facing Pete, as he felt Pancakes writhing between them.

 

Patrick was going to win Pete over. He had to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Yo, Stumphs- get up guys!"

 

Both men groaned, heads nuzzling further into their pillows at the insistent sounds of knocking cascading from the wooden door.

 

"You told him your surname was ' _Stumph_ '?" Patrick groaned again, "Didn't we agree it was ' _Wentz_ '?"

 

"Ugh- I _forgot_ , don't judge me."

 

Patrick only sighed deeply at Pete's half-asleep murmur, before he slid out of the warm bed, got to his feet, and glared at the blank air as he strode down the stairs. Between copious amounts of yawning and streching, he finally opened the front door, revealing Brendon- who looked far too cheery for someone awake at 6 am.

 

"Brendon."

 

"Patrick."

 

The younger man stepped to the side, waving to motion Brendon into the house with a nonchalant arm. Brendon stepped inside with a grin, looking around at the interior, before turning to the blonde. "So, you guys ready to go?"

Patrick could only blink, before scoffing a laugh, "Dude, does it _look_ like we're ready to go?" Brendon only rolled his eyes with a grin, "Well, c'mon- _goddamn_ , you guys are lazy."

 

"I heard that." -Was the only shout over the balcony from the bedroom, and almost immediately, Brendon broke out into laughter, casually striding over to the balcony, and yelling again, hands cupped over his mouth. "C'mon Pete- tick tock."

 

"Go _tick tock_ yourself."

 

"Pete, don't be such a- just, _get down here_ -"

 

There was only an infantile groan, before the telltale sounds of Pete struggling to get into clothing began to ring out from the bedroom. Patrick turned to Brendon with an awkward grin, "I should, ah- I should-"

 

Go help Pete get dressed and make sure he doesn't break everything that is dear to me.

 

"-go get dressed."

 

"Sure man, I'll wait here."

 

Patrick nodded and sped off upstairs, trying to restrain his yells at Pete- who had just crashed into a bedside table while he was trying to get into a pair of jeans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Holy shit, look at all those chickens!"

 

"Those are seagulls Pete."

 

"Dude...do you not know-?"

 

"-Don't judge him too much- IQ thing, remember?"

 

"Well, first of all- fuck you both."

 

The trio's conversation dissolved into easy laughter, but Patrick could tell something was wrong with Pete- there was just... _something_ _off_ in his eyes. Patrick knew something wasn't right.

 

The three chatted quietly and easily, although raucous laughter would occasionally puncture their conversations.

 

Patrick was actually impressed at how well Pete seamlessly blended into a normal, human conversation; Pete was a little like a chameleon, he could mimic people's mannerisms, and could notice miniscule quirks that nobody paid any attention to- but that definitely made a difference when helping a conversation flow.

 

Patrick found it truly fascinating. He found a lot of things about Pete fascinating; Sure, being a mythological creature was one, but- there was _more_ , than that.

The way he'd murmur in his sleep, the way he got way too excited around animals, that soft look that would take root in his eyes in sleepy, vunerable moments...shit...Patrick was _totally smitten_.

 

Around one hour of fishing later- with Pete having to hide his ever-present horror at the way humans caught fish, Brendon chimed in with something interesting, something Patrick hadn't even considered- and something that made Patrick feel really damn guilty about not considering.

 

 

"Hey, have you heard anything from your family?"

 

 

Patrick blinked, the memory of his _family_ that totally existed suddenly sank in. Huh. No, he hadn't heard from them, and shit- that made him kinda sad. They hadn't even written, or-

 

"Wait, have you even gone to get your mail?"

 

"...My what?"

 

Brendon laughed loudly, mouth twisted into an open grin, and eyes squeezing shut as he leaned forwards for a second. "Oh dude, you're literally me- I didn't check that shit either." The older man wiped his eyes, still grinning. "In town, like, all the mail gets delivered to the town hall. S'easier that way, no postmen required."

Patrick suddenly felt downcast, and he shrugged lightly. "I uh...I don't think it'll matter, like- my parents don't even know where I _live_ -"

 

"Do they have email?"

 

"...Of course they have email, they're not fucking cavemen."

 

Brendon laughed again, and Patrick's eyes flicked to the side just in time to catch Pete's glaring look at the wooden floor.

 

Huh, weird.

 

"Well dude, just write to 'em- there's like, a library in town, we can go, I have some errands- Oh yeah, I'll drive you guys!" Brendon looked back and forth between both 'Stumphs', before Patrick nodded gratefully with a smile, and in the process, coaxed a single nod from Pete.

 

"Awesome! Oh wait, just, remember the 'time zones' thing, okay?"

 

The 'time zones thing'.

 

How eloquent.

 

"Sure Brendon."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Subject: Hey mom_

 

_Hi mom, Patrick here._

_I just wanted to let you know that I'm fine, I'm doing well. I got a house, I have a job, and I'm actually pretty happy. And, I know you probably aren't too convinced, but I really feel this was the right choice._

_Well, anyway, just wanted to let you know that if you need to contact me or anything, this email address is the way to do it. But, I'll take some time to answer, because the only computer I can get to is in the library, so, yeah._

_And, if you want to send mail, or something- My address is: Hindisvik, Vatnsnes fjord, Vatnsnes peninsula, Iceland. Or, I guess, if it's more simple- Actually wait, scratch that- if you need to send me something just mail it to: Reykir Town Hall, Reykir, Iceland, okay?_

_I love you mom, hope you're doing well._

_Say hi to dad, Megan and Kevin for me._

_Love you all._

 

_Patrick._

 

Patrick sighed and leaned back in the desk chair, hitting send with the mouse as he leaned his head on his hand, elbow planted into the armrest. The redhead logged out of the temporary guest library login, and stood, deciding to wander around the library until he found Pete- or Brendon- or just, whoever he came by first.

 

 

Patrick ran pale fingers over book spines, brain struggling to read the chunks of Icelandic, and he felt small, desperate pattering jolt his heart; He was still scared shitless, that was true- but at least he wasn't alone. He had good people around him, he had good friends, everything was _fine_ , and eventually, Patrick would learn the complex nordic tongue, he just needed time, and practice.

 

As luck would have it, he found Pete first, smiling at him tightly from the far end of a bookshelf, just as he slotted a book back into the case. Patrick moved towards him with a kinder smile, despite his anxiety at the dark, hidden look in the brown eyes. He stood next to Pete, kind smile remaining as he tilted his head curiously. "How are you? Read anything good?"

Pete nodded, lip jutting out appreciatively, "Yeah actually, I read something cool. Quite a few cool...things, actually."

Patrick gave a curt nod in response, chewing on his lip for a second, before a bubble of courage rose through his throat. Something was wrong with Pete. And he had to fix it. He had to find out what it was- and he _had_ to fix it.

 

"Pete-"

"Patrick-"

 

They both laughed quietly, with faint notes of awkwardness lining the sounds. Pete shook his head softly, motioning out a hand, "Uh, you first-"

"Oh no, you please-"

"Seriously, go on-"

"It's fine, please-"

 

 

"Hey guys!"

 

 

Brendon grinned at them from the other end of the bookcase, before he motioned them towards the door with his head. "You guys ready? I gotta be heading back-"

 

"Actually, I-"

"Oh yeah dude, we're done."

 

Pete edged past Patrick in one swift movement, and strode towards Brendon with a grin, and the two began talking animatedly. They began their journey back to the car, and Patrick followed in tow, quiet and contemplating.

 

Pete had left something unsaid, and fuck, he was gonna find out what it was- all this _dancing around_ the fucking subject was pissing him off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Bye dude!"

 

"See ya Pete! See ya Patrick!"

 

"Bye, Brendon."

 

Patrick's voice was quieter than Pete's cheery yell, and his eyes shifted to subtly glare at the siren. As soon as the car was travelling down the road, driving away from the house, Patrick turned to Pete with a whisper. "Hey, can I talk to you?"

 

Pete blinked nonchalantly, and nodded with a shrug, rolling his eyes slightly as Patrick dragged him inside by the shirt- not stopping his tugging until their feet were firmly planted in the kitchen.

 

"Pete." Patrick began, eyes wide and assuring. "I know something's up with you. So please, just talk to me."

 

Pete didn't protest, and he didn't deny the claim either- but he simply said nothing, lidded, whiskey-browns boring into Patrick.

 

"Pete," Patrick tried again, hand moving to Pete's shoulder; He felt the muscle tense a fraction, but the movement only resolved to _make_ him keep his hand there.

 

 

"What's wrong?"

 

 

Pete swallowed thickly, eyes fluttering for a moment, before he exhaled shakily. "If I... _do_... _something_ , d'you promise you won't freak out?"

 

Patrick huffed a soft laugh, "Well, it depends what ' _something_ ' is."

 

Pete didn't look amused- he only looked more pained than before, and it made Patrick's heart sting to think his words had caused the miserable look that festered in the wide brown eyes.

 

"I just- Okay, if I do ' _the thing_ '...will you at least give me a chance to talk? To- like, _explain_...myself?"

 

Patrick nodded eagerly, he wanted to find out what was wrong, and sating some part of Pete's curiosity was the least he could do. "Sure, Pete."

 

Pete chewed on his lip nervously, anxiety filled eyes flitting around like moths at light bulbs. He reached a hand up to cover Patrick's eyes, and sighed deeply when he heard the smaller man start his indignant protests.

 

"Pete, _what_ -?"

 

"You said- Just, chill out."

 

Shit, he was gonna get eaten alive.

 

This was the end.

 

Patrick said nothing, life flashing before his eyes as he waited for inevitable, grusome death, and lips parting slightly to release his final shaky, anxious breath, before-

 

Oh.

 

Okay.

 

Pete's lips were on his.

 

Warm, chapped, but soft at the same time, and definitely not eating him alive- Oh _fuck_ , Pete's lips were-

 

Pete's cool palm lay across Patrick's eyelids, as his other hand softly traced Patrick's ear, before the hand carded strawberry-blonde strands softly- all while his lips pressed soft, sweet kisses to Patrick's, and the siren revelled in just _how_ soft, and pink, and plump Patrick's mouth was.

Pete's tongue darted to lap at Patrick's lower lip, and the younger man mewled for a second- before realities snapped back into place. Patrick pulled back, elegant pale fingers wrapping around Pete's wrist gently, and pulling the tanned palm from his eyes.

Patrick held the wrist in his hand, and he stared up at Pete- eyes wide and unbelieving.

 

 

Okay.

 

 

There were some... _contradictory_ thoughts here- pros and cons, if you will.

 

Cons:

  * Pete wasn't human. 
  * Pete was a siren- that could literally _eat him alive_. 
  * He was sarcastic...but, like- so was Patrick, so there was no room to complain or-
  * Pete...could get a little... _grumpy_...? But, only sometimes- he was usually so sweet, and-



 

Alright then, swiftly moving onto the pros.

 

Pros:

  * He was so fucking sweet, it was unbelievable.
  * Pete was funny, and could generally cheer Patrick up on the worst days.
  * He was so fucking pretty- and yes, Patrick understood how vapid that sounded, but shit- _Pete's fucking face_ \- it made his heart flutter.
  * He was kind, and so warm- both physically and, just, personality-wise.
  * Patrick was pretty sure Pete wouldn't eat him alive.
  * Pete was one of the truest friends he'd ever had- sure, they messed with each other, but-



 

Patrick could have gone on forever, but he was already convinced.

 

 

And while he _was_ convinced- _he wasn't ready_.

 

 

"Pete-"

 

"No, just lemme-" Pete exhaled shakily, eyes nervous to meet Patrick's, "I like you Patrick. I like you a lot. A-And, I think about you...a lot." The siren's eyes widened suddenly, "Oh, shit- not like, in a _creepy way_ \- I just-"

Patrick laughed, too brashly and too loudly for the quiet, confessional tone. The strawberry-blonde sighed softly, smiling at Pete gently. "I like you too Pete." He heard a sigh of relief, and he hoped his next words wouldn't kill the pleasant feeling taking root in Pete's eyes.

 

"But I...I need some time, to- to like-" Patrick sighed in frustration, stuck on how to properly convey how he felt. He wanted to grab Pete and kiss him again, he wanted to take Pete to bed right now, he wanted anything but that, he wanted them to take it slow, he wanted to grab Pete by the shirt and scream at him to wait for him, he wanted to think about it, he wanted to kiss him-

 

"To...to let it...sink in...?" Patrick looked up at Pete through fair eyelashes, gulping in worry. "Does that... _make sense?_ "

 

 

Pete nodded softly, some light leaving his eyes, and Patrick felt like the worst person in the world.

 

 

This wasn't what he wanted- He didn't want Pete to feel rejected, because he really fucking wasn't getting rejected right now- Pete looked so miserable, shit-

 

 

Fuck it.

 

 

Patrick surged forwards, hands fisting into the older man's shirt, and he slotted his mouth with Pete's, tilting his head with a quiet moan.

Pete sighed again, relief puffing his chest up, as his fingertips trailed Patrick's cold, pale, yet pink dusted, cheeks. The blonde tilted his head, hands moving from the fabric of the shirt to deftly card through dark, short strands of hair- earning quiet sighs and soft moans of appreciation.

His hands gripped Pete's hair, in an assuring- ' _I'm yours, just give me like, a week to process the fact that I'm gonna have a mythological sea creature boyfriend_ '- kinda way. Patrick pulled away from the warm, soft lips- even though it physically pained him to do so; Pete was good at kissing. Like, way too good for someone who'd had a maw of shark teeth for most of his life.

But Pete was gazing at him with a dark, and longing look, and Patrick decided to muse on Pete's unlikely skills some other time.

 

"I like you, a lot- just, I've never- Just bear with me, okay? Just give me some time."

 

Pete nodded softly, a gentle smile weaving onto his lips, as he ran his thumb over Patrick's sharp cheekbone. Patrick couldn't resist pressing another soft kiss to Pete's cheek, and the siren looked positively overwhelmed, eyes practically tearing as his voice rang out- gentle, accepting and loving.

 

"Okay. Take all the time you need."

 

Patrick smiled softly, eyes watering slightly.

 

He was a sappy guy, okay?

 

Love confessions tended to turn him into a sobbing wreck- he couldn't help it.

 

"Thank you, Pete."

 

"You're welcome Patrick."

 

They collapsed into a warm embrace, Pete's chin resting on the crown of Patrick's head as his arms encircled the younger man- who in turn, fisted his hands into Pete's shirt, forehead leaning on the man's collarbones.

 

 

Looks like Pete wouldn't need much winning over after all.

 

 

 


	9. They Call Me Cuban Pete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, just AN: This is weird, but I am very sleep deprived lol.
> 
> Hey guys, sorry for the delay/weird plot turn lol. Also, a huge, eternal thanks to laudanum_cafe, who literally gave me so many ideas and pretty much gave me the idea for 97% of this chapter lol. You the real MVP, dude.  
> Hope you guys enjoy, sorry for the delay again lol <3  
> (Also, I'll re-read and re-edit this tomorrow, when I'm fully awake, so if this randomly improves tomorrow afternoon- that's why).

 

Patrick yawned as he tried to keep his eyes open, focusing his gaze on every step forwards each of his feet took.

He heard uneven footsteps at his side, and he glanced up behind him to see Pete, who was stumbling forwards with half-closed eyes, grunting every time he almost fell. Patrick gave him a soft smile and a quiet laugh, before he shook his head quickly, trying to clear the dazed clouds that drifted through his mind.

 

With a gentle, easy smile, Patrick looked up from the sidewalk, surveying the town instead; Endless rows of brightly colored houses, clumps of green pine trees spilling down from the hills, and snowy mountains standing proudly over the domain like guardians- all while the smell of petrichor hung in the air.

 

They were heading to the library again, as Brendon had insisted that _'there are some awesome fuckin' books there dude_ '. Patrick glanced back at Pete again, who was now rubbing his eyes with his fist, yawning quietly. The strawberry-blonde smiled again; Pete had been so goddamn patient with him, the human couldn't thank him enough. Sure, they'd sneak kisses every now and then, and Patrick would usually wake up with soft kisses on his face, and sweet nothings whispered in his ear- but Pete had restrained himself to an extreme level of chasteness, and fuck- if that hadn't made Patrick even more head-over-heels than he had already been.

 

Patrick looked away from the sleepy siren, and turned back ahead, staring up at the huge, Reykir library, that sat at the end of a small path that was marked into warm brown and dark green grass; White, bricked, and covered with clear, metal framed windows, all topped off with a basil green roof. It was huge, and grand, sitting confidently in front of a sloping, dark grey mountain.

 

The strawberry-blonde sniffed at a sudden gust of cold air, and picked up his pace with a lurch, hearing Pete's footsteps speed up in the same way.

They jogged up the grey, stone steps, stopping in front of the wooden doors, but before Patrick could even try to open the door- Pete's hand had shot out, grabbing the handle and pulling the door open. He grinned at Patrick tiredly, and motioned him inside, "My lady."

Patrick couldn't help his sudden laugh, and the sound only made Pete's smile broaden, as Patrick strode inside with a mumble, "Hilarious, Pete."

 

Both men strode inside, looking around at the many bookcases lining the walls, filled with books scrawled with foreign titles.

Patrick turned to the siren at his side, who was animatedly squinting around at the different bookshelves with a searching gaze.

"I gotta use a computer, are you good to, just- _hang out_ , for a while?"

 

Pete nodded with a soft, tired smile, rubbing at his eyes, "Sure, I'll just go read for a while." Patrick gave a short nod, smiling gently, before he hesitantly stepped away, glancing back at Pete periodically as he made his way to the computers.

 

With a glance at the mountains sitting behind the window, Patrick sat down at an empty desk, eyes quickly shifting to the computer screen. A few taps of the keyboard, and a few clicks later, Patrick was faced with his inbox- that was filled with spam, because _of course it was_. However, amongst the emails promising penis enlargements, and advertising Russian mail order brides- Patrick saw an email from a real life human.

 

His mom.

 

Patrick opened the email with a small, optimistic smile- Hey, maybe she'd finally applaud Patrick's decision!...But as his eyes scanned over the lines, his smile slowly melted away.

 

 

 

_Patrick, oh my god, we've been so worried!_

_We haven't heard from you in months, we were terrified! Patrick, please, never do that again._

_I'm glad you're doing well, and I have to admit, we were surprised to hear that you actually found a house, or a job. We were actually very surprised when you didn't come home after a week._

_I meant to tell you- your dad and I have decided to visit you- so thank you for giving us your address, sweetheart. I'm sorry we haven't really had the time to ask you, but we'll be there next week, so I hope that's okay with you. We just assumed you'd be free, you never were very social, dear._

_Your brother and sister say hi, and we're all relieved you're doing well._

_I love you Patrick, see you soon!_

_Xx_

 

_Mom_

 

 

Oh fuck.

 

Patrick stared blankly for a moment, eyes clouded in disbelief.

 

Shit.

 

Actually shit.

 

Patrick had to- Oh fuck- why was this- what made his mom think she could just make plans without asking him first?- Fuck, _jesus christ_ -

 

The strawberry-blonde stood, his breathing heavy, deep and nervous, as he slowly turned to the rows of bookcases a few meters away. He had to bite his tongue to not start shouting for Pete- He needed to get home. They needed to get home. He needed to prepare- Oh fuck, _Pete_ \- He needed a game plan.

 

Patrick started towards the bookshelves, ducking inbetween every row, eyes scanning for a mop of black hair. "Pete?!" Patrick hissed, darting around the history section- eyes wide, and frame practically shaking. He rounded another corner, head turning wildly to find the man, "Pete?!"

But, the siren was nowhere to be found, and Patrick was definitely gonna cry. "Pete?! Where are-?" A librarian- that was alphabetizing economics books, shushed him, finger to her lips and brow furrowed. Patrick felt tears prickling at his eyes; Did this woman not understand that Patrick was going to die? From a heart attack? Or, like- from jumping off the cliff as soon as he saw his family?

 

Yep, Patrick was pretty sure he was gonna cry. Openly. And loudly. For the first time since he was six years old.

 

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

 

 

It sounded like a choir of angels- but it was really just the familiar, nasaled voice.

 

Patrick turned, shuddering in relief at the sight; Pete stood at the end of the bookcakes, his eyebrows were raised in concern, and his hand was clasped around a finance book, as he idly slotted it into the shelf. Patrick strode towards him- doing his best to keep a straight face. He grabbed the siren by the jacket lapel and pulled him out of the library, footsteps hurried as his breathing got heavier. They practically cantered down the stone steps, and were firmly back in the main street of town, when Pete's concerns started ringing out. Patrick's breathing only got more stifled, but heavier, at the same time; He wasn't sure if it was because of the speedy pace he'd set, or because of the anxiety of a visit from his parents.

 

 

"Patrick? Dude, hey, slow down-"

 

 

In a sudden move, Pete pulled the younger man to a stop, hands wrapped around the younger man's forearms as he slowed Patrick towards him. Pete's eyes were wide and questioning, but they quickly became calm and reassuring as soon as he noticed the fear swirling in Patrick's eyes.

"Patrick, hey- dude, calm down, it's okay." Pete pulled the younger man into his chest as soon as he saw the blue eyes tear up, dropping his chin on the fair hair, and squeezing his arms around the man reassuringly. Patrick groaned, dropping his face into Pete's collarbones, "Oh fuck- Pete- My mom- oh shit, my dad- what do I-?"

 

"Your mom-?" Pete pulled back, brow furrowed softly as his eyes scanned Patrick's face. "What do you mean?" The blonde only sniffed, wiping his watery eyes, before he exhaled deeply, eyes closing as he nodded, shakily collecting his thoughts. "My parents- they uh...they're coming to visit."

 

Pete only cocked his head, making him look like a confused puppy.

 

"So...why are you worried?"

 

Oh you sweet, innocent child.

 

"Pete," Patrick exhaled again, before he gratefully breathed in the cool fresh air. "My family is... _a lot_."

 

Pete only blinked.

 

Patrick only sighed.  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

One week had passed, and the day had finally arrived. Doomsday, Armageddon, the End of Times- Or, Patrick's family visit, and Patrick had been worrying mercilessly for an entire week.

Pete had been supportive, calm, and at many times- the only voice of reason in a stormy sea of fear, doubt and panic. However, Patrick had noticed something that...unnerved him; Whenever Patrick would go into one of his long rants during a venting session with Pete as his impromptu-therapist, the brown eyes would often...flicker, with something. Something devious, something sly, and something that made anxiety itch under Patrick's skin.

Pete was planning something, and he didn't know what. He could only hope and pray it had nothing to do with his family.

Truth be told, Patrick was holding onto a small pill of resentment at his parents- for completely dismissing the fact that hey- newflash, maybe Patrick was busy, or wasn't available for a family reunion. So, in order to stick it to his parents in a way, and in order to not go completely insane- Patrick had made no effort to hide, or get Pete out of the house; And he really hoped that the siren wouldn't make him regret that decision.

 

 

It was fair, cloudy Monday morning, and Patrick was pacing around the kitchen. Socks shuffling against the wooden slats, teeth chewing the fingernails on his right hand, and humming quiet, familiar tunes to calm himself down- all while Pete watched him from the kitchen table. The siren's head was on his hand as watched Patrick with a soft smile, all while something mischievous flashed through his eyes in sudden flames.

 

"Patrick?"

 

"Uh-huh?"

 

"Come sit down," Pete stood from the kitchen table, running a hand over his face with a quiet exhaled as he moved over to the kitchen counters. "I'll make you tea."

With a slow, hesistant glance, Patrick finally obliged, and he moved over to the kitchen table slowly, taking a seat with a quiet scrape of chair legs against the floor. He gazed out of the window, teeth still worrying his nails as his leg bounced nervously. Patrick glanced over his shoulder at Pete, who was boiling water on the stove. "I'd uh- I'd prefer coffee right now, to be honest."

With an incredulous shake of his head, and a sudden laugh, Pete sighed with a grin as he fished around in the cupboards for the tea bags. " _No way_ \- you're already _way too_ jumpy for your own good."

Patrick groaned in response, damp, abused fingernails raking over his face, and trailing over his scalp. It was gonna be fine, Pete was right, it was all gonna be okay-

 

A quiet click coursed through his ears, and Patrick looked up from his hands to see Pete's gentle smile- and shrewd eyes. A tanned hand pushed a cup of herbal tea over the table- it was the same brand that Pete hated and could pretty much _throw up_ at, but that Patrick loved, and could drink about twenty cups of a day.

 

The strawberry-blonde took the mug between both hands, warming his palms on the balmy ceramic. Pete kissed his hair softly, hand carding through, before he murmured quietly into the soft strands. "It's all gonna be okay, 'Trick. You'll see."

Patrick nodded with a strained smile, voice a low whisper. "I hope so." The blonde shifted in his seat to turn to Pete, smiling up at him softly. He stood, hands sliding away from the mug, as he bounced up onto his toes, hands moving to Pete's hair. Their faces were inches apart, and they breathed into each other, all while calm smiles painted their faces. Patrick nudged the tip of Pete's nose with his own, only serving to make the siren grin, eye corners crinkling adorably. "Thank you Pete."

Pete moved forwards, pressing a soft kiss to Patrick's mouth, the wet sound of their mouths joining ringing in Patrick's ears. The blonde smiled into the kiss, moving to tilt his head with a content exhale, hand threading into dark strands, when-

 

 

A loud knock rang through the house.

 

 

Everything in Patrick dropped, froze and exploded all at once.

 

 

Patrick's breath hitched against Pete's mouth, and he instantly pulled back, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, before his gaze clicked to freeze on the door.

Unbidden, and in an instant, his legs willed themselves forwards, and the redhead strode over to the door with heavy breaths wracking his body, a writhing, swirling tangle of fear, that felt like eels, in the pit of his stomach.

With no preamble, and in an automatic, almost robotic manner, Patrick swung the door open, finally exhaling deeply when he saw-

 

 

"Patrick! Oh, sweetheart-"

 

 

He was instantly enveloped in a bone crushing hug, courtesy of his mother. Patrick shuddered, something between fear and relief coursing through his system, as his mother pulled back, surveying her son for a moment, with parentally concerned, yet loving eyes. Patrick's gaze moved to Megan and Kevin, both looking around at the exterior of the house with expressions settled somewhere between confusion, and some kind of mild awe. Patrick's eyes flicked over to his dad next- _oh boy_ , this was gonna be awkward; Patrick's parents had been divorced for years- since Patrick had been nine years old, actually, and well...they weren't the best of friends, to put it lightly. Sure they were... _amicable_...to each other, he supposed, but leave them alone in a room for more than five minutes, and the arguments, passive-agressions, and snide comments made tension fog the air.

 

Oh.

 

Patrick suddenly realized he'd been staring blankly at his family for three, solid minutes.

 

“Oh _sh_ \- shoot- come in, I’m sorry I just-”

 

In an instant, Patrick jolted to the side, opening the door as wide as the hinges allowed, and he promptly ushered his family into the house with a nonchalant wave of his free hand. His mom and dad stepped inside first, both gazes , quickly followed by Kevin and Megan, who gave their little brother questioning smiles, along with furrowed brows.

 

Wait.

 

Pete-

 

Oh for fuck’s-

 

“Oh _hello_ , dear! Patrick didn’t tell us-”

 

“Ay, disculpa- yo no hablo ingles.”

 

Pete.

 

What.

 

_The fuck._

 

_Are you doing._

 

In a stupor, Patrick turned with wide, dazed, and terrified eyes, watching Pete’s apologetic smile- not aimed at the blonde, but instead aimed at Patrick’s mom and dad. His dad’s voice rang out next, stilted in surprise.

  
“Oh, you’re... _Mexican_ …or-?”

 

“Cuba- soy de Cuba.”

 

The Kill Bill siren started playing in Patrick's head.

 

His parents blinked, and his mom nodded, before Megan turned to her little brother, despite her gaze staying on Pete, with a shy smile on her face as her eyes flitted over him. “So Patrick, are you going to, _introduce us_ , or…?”

 

Shit.

 

“Oh, uh- this is, uh-”

 

How was he supposed to make up a name that fit Pete’s new fucking ‘ _Cuban_ ’ origin story?

 

He’d never been good at improv- _fuck_ -

 

SO THIS was what Pete had been so fucking smug about- _Motherfucker._

_  
_ All that comforting bullshit Pete had said before had been totally fake- Fucking _glorified_ _fish bastard_ \- Pete had turned around just to stab him in the goddamn back, oh- Pete was sleeping on the couch. Forever. _Indefinitely_.

 

“Ah, uh-” Pete grinned, crinkled eyes shifting over to Patrick for a second, before flicking back to the redhead’s parents. “Yo me llamo,” Pete made a point of speaking slowly, gesturing to himself, and widening his eyes, making absolute sure that Patrick's parents had some idea of what he was saying.

The whiskey-browns squinted in thought for a split second, before his grin broadened evilly, and he uttered the most ridiculous string of words Patrick had ever heard.

 

“Me llamo- Pedro, Javier Manuel...Hernandez Montoya de la Pinga...de la... _virgen de Calcutta_ , y, uh- de la rosa.”

 

Patrick froze.

 

His ears rang, his heart slowed, the adrenaline kicked in.

 

Pete.

 

Why.

 

Patrick had trusted him.

 

What-

 

Fuck, okay- They were stuck. They were in a fucking sticky situation, and while _Pete_ had gotten them _into_ this situation- Patrick would get them out of it.

 

Resisting the urge to grab a carving knife and turn Pete into sushi, Patrick cleared his throat, drawing the attention of his wide-eyed, silent in shock, family.

 

 

“Uh- You can just call him Pete. For short.”

 

 

Pete only smiled broadly, eyes squinting and crinkling as he tried to hold back laughter with all his might.

 

He was going to kill Pete.

 

He wasn’t sure when.

 

He wasn’t sure how.

 

But Pete would perish at his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So, what brings you to Iceland, dear?”

 

“Yo vine por _este_ culo glorioso.”

 

“He came for work.”

 

“Oh really? I thought you would have gone to the US instead- _Iceland_ , just, seems so... _odd_.”

 

Thanks mom. Thanks a bunch.

 

Patrick was currently gulping down coffee at inhuman speeds, sat around a table with his family, and Pete Wentz- Or as his parents now insisted to referred to him as: ‘Pedro’.

 

 

Patrick was suffering.

 

 

In some sense of twisted irony, during long summer vacations from school, Patrick would always take periodic Spanish classes, and honestly- he was pretty good. His accent wasn’t great, but he could understand the language- either written or spoken- and since his parents knew about his particular linguistic skill, Patrick had been roped into being an unwilling translator.

 

Pete, however, was completely refusing to actually answer questions, and instead, just reeled off stupid shit that Patrick totally knew weren’t relevant responses- many of them were just dumb song lyrics he'd heard on the radio. So that left the unfortunate task of making up a backstory, and answering questions, solely to Patrick.

 

However, surprisingly, Patrick’s parents had been incredibly... _thoughtful_ \- Well, despite the whole ' _We're just gonna show up uninvited and totally inconvenience you_ ' thing. They’d brought him stuff from home, care packages and the like- along with one of his dad’s old guitars, which, admittedly, Patrick had teared up at the sight of.

Patrick’s thoughts about sweet gifts and gestures were abruptly interrupted, as he heard Pete’s ridiculous comeback to his mom’s statement.

 

“Zúmbale mambo pa' que mis gatas prendan los motores.”

 

“He said- he’d always liked Iceland.”

 

“Oh that’s just like you Patrick!” His dad nodded towards him, and Patrick could only smile tightly, trying to hold back a glare at the siren- who was smiling broadly and slyly. Megan tilted her head a little, smiling at Pete coyly, whilst Patrick’s mom attacked with another question.

 

Directed at Pete.

 

For some reason, his family found the ‘Cuban’, much more interesting than their own son- So Patrick had been cast to the sidelines as Pete received the bouts of attention...And _the motherfucker_ only grinned, some bullshit he’d picked up from the radio tumbling from his lips thoughtlessly.

 

“So, are you employed?”

 

“Duro, mami, ya yo se que tú no te me vas a quitar.”

 

“I employed him, he helps me on the farm.”

 

“Oh, interesting.” Patrick’s father nodded, looking surprised, but slightly proud. Patrick suspected the pride came from the fact that his son was an ‘employer’, instead of an ‘employee’- His dad had always had _a thing_ about 'wage slaves'.

Kevin’s brow had been furrowed for the majority of his time in Patrick’s home- and his younger brother was slightly insulted, as he assumed Kevin's stern gaze was directed at his house. His older brother peered at Patrick curiously, as he sipped his coffee quietly.

 

“Isn’t it like- super boring here? Like, what do you even do? Do you have internet, or...?”

 

Pete raised an eyebrow, smug smile creeping onto one side of his lips. He huffed in amusement with a light shrug, “Tu hermano me tiene bien entretenido.”

 

Patrick blinked- eyes shooting wide at the words. He was really glad the only knowledge his family had of Spanish, came from the Dora the Explorer marathons Megan used to have when she was a kid. Stifling a sigh as, _once again_ \- Pete’s dirty words were completely lost in translation, Patrick spoke blankly, trying to ignore Pete's impish grin burning into his very soul. “He says he likes to read, so it’s fine.”

 

His mom’s mouth opened to ask something else, when another loud knock rang through the room.

 

Fuck, what now? Hadn't Patrick suffered enough?

 

With a warning glare at Pete- who only smiled sweetly, Patrick stood, and strode over to the door with tensed shoulder blades. His fingers wrapped around the metal handle, and he pressed down, pulled back, and opened the door to reveal-

 

Oh no.

 

Why was- _Worst possible timing_ \- Fuck- No-

 

 

“Hey Stumph! How are ya?”

 

 

Patrick shut his eyes with a quiet exhale, “I’m good Brendon.”

A curious, light voice rang from inside the house.

 

 

“Patrick? Another friend?”

 

 

Patrick held back a groan.

 

Wait.

 

Brendon.

 

Brendon thought Pete was his cousin- but his parents thought Pete was a Cuban farmhand, oh shit- oh fuck-

 

  
Patrick was a helpless fly caught in a web of lies, weaved by Pete the monster tarantula.

 

In short, he was pretty fucked.

 

 

Keeping Brendon out for a second, Patrick quickly looked over his shoulder to stare at Pete with wide, pressing eyes. “Hey, Pete- Can uh- Go check on the- on _the thing?_ ”

Pete only furrowed his brow, head cocking adorably-

 

No, fuck- Pete was fucking ruining his life right now, he _wasn’t_ adorable.

 

Patrick’s mind whirred, trying to figure out what said 'thing' could be, and then-

 

The only thing Patrick could remember in the Spanish language at that precise moment.

 

 

 

“LOS POLLOS.”

 

 

 

Pete shook with a sudden, stifled laugh, fist pressing to his mouth as he nodded, grinning as he stood. “Ah, bien bien- Voy a revisarte los pollos, papi.” Pete moved away down the hall, frame shaking with quiet laughter, as he'd completely understood Patrick’s panicky yell- Finally catching onto the fact that Patrick was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

As soon as the siren disappeared down the hall, Patrick shepherded Brendon inside with quiet apologies- only answered with vehement words of ' _Dude, don't worry about it. Are you okay?_ '.

Patrick could only nod with squinty eyes and a strained smile as he offered Brendon a cup of coffee, and introduced him to his family, as the guy who’d basically saved his life. His parents had been unspeakably grateful, and they'd settled into an easy conversation with the man. Patrick listened with a tight smile, nodding and giving short hums on Brendon's cues, when-

 

Okay.

 

Something...downright, fucking _terrifying_ , had just clicked in Patrick’s mind.

 

 

Brendon, Pete, and his parents were all in close vicinity of each other.

 

 

Brendon thought Pete was Patrick’s cousin.

 

 

His parents thought Pete was a Cuban farmhand.

 

 

And Patrick knew- _Pete was a siren_.

 

Basically, Patrick was going to have to keep them all the hell away from each other- and it wasn't going to be fucking easy, seeing as-

 

 

“Oh hey, did you guys know Pete was here?”

 

 

No.

 

Brendon.

  
“No.” Patrick’s eyes were wide, his voice was firm, and he desperately held back the faint feeling clouding his head. “N-No they didn’t- _Hey Brendon_ , I need to talk to you-” Patrick strode over, effortlessly grabbing his friend by the parka lapel and dragging him outside.

Patrick maneuvered Brendon to the gate, glancing back at the house every few moments, and making a point of avoiding Pete- who he knew was messing with the chickens, due to the loud, indignant clucking coming from the pens behind the house.

 

“What did ya need, Patrick?”

 

Brendon looked concerned, eyes drifting over the younger man’s twitching eyes, and wrinkled nose. “I uh- I, just- I needed to-”

 

 

“Oh hey Brendon!”

 

 

 Brendon turned, face splitting into a grin at the sight of Pete- poking out from behind the corner of the house. “Hey Pete! How you doing-?”

 

“I need to ask you something about the boat. Right now.”

 

Patrick’s hand- that was still fisted into Brendon’s jacket, tugged the man behind him, headeding over to the rocky steps, and quickly jogging down to the beach as he dragged the man behind him- but not without one final yell back at Pete.

 

 

“KEEP THEM ENTERTAINED.”

 

In retrospect, maybe Patrick should have probably considered exactly, _what_ , Pete considered ' _entertainment_ '.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Okay, so uh- What’s up with the boat?”

 

“Uh, it’s uh- making a weird... _sound_ \- Can you like- check on it, _for a sec_?”

 

Brendon looked dubious for a moment, but quickly only shrugged, smiling up at the younger man. “Sure dude.” Patrick exhaled a quiet ‘ _thank you_ ’, before glancing up at the house on the cliff.

 

Pete was currently alone with his parents.

 

Fuck.

 

Okay, game plan. Patrick needed a game plan.

 

“Hey, uh...Brendon…?”

Brendon’s head shot up from behind the boat’s wooden side, eyes wide and head cocked. “Yeah dude?” Patrick’s eyes were twitchy, and he slowly nodded as he backed away, feet stumbling and sinking behind him in the damp, dark sand. “I uh- I gotta check on my mom and dad- just uh- wait there- a sec- okay?”

The older man furrowed his brow again, but ultimately nodded curtly, ducking down again to check the boat.

 

The moment that Brendon’s wide-eyed gaze was off of him, Patrick turned and sprinted to the steps, practically running up them on all fours.

The blonde bolted past the gates, leaving them wide open and swinging as a few horses tried to follow him in vain. Patrick opened the front door, crashed inside, and slammed it behind him.

Patrick’s family jolted in surprise, eyes wide as they turned to gaze curiously at the youngest family member.

Pete only grinned.

 

“O-Oh, hey, sorry- I just- uh...uh...”

 

The words trailed away, and after a few moments of awkward silence, Patrick’s mom decided to make a smooth recovery of the conversation.

 

“Patrick, sweetheart- We saw a restaurant in town, and we were thinking we could treat you- Oh, and Pedro, to dinner.”

 

Fuck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, admittedly, the restaurant was nice. _Very nice_ , actually. And while Patrick was sure it probably cost a bomb- thankfully, one Icelandic krona equalled one US cent, so at least he wouldn’t feel like shit for making his family spend a stupid amount of cash on him.

 

And on Pete.

 

That was another thing- _Pete_.

 

The siren wasn't really used to cooked food, as he preferred to devour raw fish- even after losing his shark teeth. And Patrick always tried to oblige him in that sense, letting him have copious amounts of raw fish, and even putting up with the horrifying noises of bones breaking- oh, and the blood splatters. Yeah. The blood splatters that made the kitchen table look like a fucking crime scene. So, when grilled, arctic fish had been put on the table for dinner- Pete had obviously been a little out of his depth.

Pete had poked, stared, and sniffed- and had literally held back a retch after finally getting a mouthful of cooked fish. He’d swallowed with clenched eyes and a pained shudder, and had refused to eat anything else- only opting to bring forkfuls to his mouth, pretend to swallow, before subtly spitting mushy fish back into a napkin.

And while Patrick’s family remained oblivious- the redhead was fully aware of Pete’s indiscretions, and opted to glare at him like a disapproving parent every now and then.

 

Something which Patrick hadn’t been appreciating either, had been his siblings' behaviour; Kevin’s smug stares, for starters. His older brother would glance between Patrick and Pete, eyes implying the dirtiest possibility. And Patrick was... _disgusted_ , to say the least.

Megan wasn’t any better either; She only leaned her head on her hand, shooting doe eyes at Pete every now and then. Patrick understood. Patrick could sympathise- But goddamnit, Megan was taking stealth pictures of Pete, every. Three. Minutes.

However, the sneaky phone had been quickly stuffed into a pocket, and Megan’s face had dropped, flushing a familiar red- When, in a moment of Patrick’s parents being distracted, Pete had winked at the camera directly- sucessfully embarrassing Megan to the point where she was ready for an early grave.

Patrick considered telling Pete to stop harrasing his siblings, but in the end, he couldn't care- he just couldn't, because flustered Megan was hilarious- all hiccups, skittish glances and red cheeks.

 

 

 

“So, how did you two meet?” Patrick’s mom asked the question, and the redhead could only wince a little, stifling his uncomfortable disposition with an awkward cough. Only, his eyes suddenly shot open when Pete decided to take matters into his own, _extremely incapable_ , hands.

 

“Nos conocimos en una aplicación,” Pete gave a charming grin, “-Llamada Tinder. Quería un pedazo de _eso_ ,” The siren motioned his head at Patrick with raised eyebrows. “- _Si sabes lo que quiero decir_.”

 

Patrick knew what Pete’s suggestive tone sounded like- and he could assume Pete's words hadn't been anything chaste.

 

Thankfully, Patrick’s parents and siblings didn’t pick up on the filthy intentions behind the words, and they all looked over at the strawberry-blonde, waiting for translation.

Patrick held back a sigh.

 

“Brendon introduced us. I needed help on the farm- Pete was a cheap hire.”

 

A few moments later, and Patrick's eyes shifted to the side; Pete had a sly grin on his face, as he turned for a split second to wiggle his eyebrows at Patrick suggestively.

Patrick kicked Pete under the table- sharp and fast, and the older man grunted quietly, brow furrowing suddenly.

 

It would probably leave a bruise.

 

Patrick was happy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So, crushing on your farmhand?”

 

Patrick choked on his own spit, coughing into his hand with wide, horrified eyes as he stared up at his older brother. His voice was only a rasped whisper. “ _W-What?_ ”

Kevin only grinned, laughing quietly and crossing his arms, “C’mon, I know you like the back of my hand, Patty-”

 

Patrick made a face at the unfortunate nickname- but Kevin’s grin only broadened.

 

“Dude, c’mon, it’s obvious. The ‘ _heart eyes_ ’? You’re as obvious as Megan is.”

 

Shit.

 

With a slow grimace, Patrick only gulped, swiftly trying to end the conversation as his gaze moved to his parents- who were stood a few meters away, checking the four visitors into their hotel room.

Since Patrick’s house was tiny, his parents had, thankfully, made arrangements to stay in a hotel in town- and fuck, Patrick was glad about that, for a few reasons- but mainly because when he got home, he was going to rip Pete a new one.

 

He was also glad he wouldn't have to give up his bed, but he was happier about beating the metaphorical shit out of Pete.

 

Pete was gonna die. Verbally.

 

“We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.” Patrick’s mom was on her youngest son in a second, arms wrapped around him tightly, as she murmured her pride. She let go after a few moments- to allow Patrick’s dad to assault him next.

 

Slightly awkward goodbyes later, and Patrick had successfully dragged Pete home- and that _motherfucking salmon boy_ had been grinning smugly the whole way.

 

Patrick hadn’t understood _all_ of Pete’s unsavory words- but he’d understood _enough_ of them.

 

Enough of them to legally warrant him killing Pete.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“HOW _DARE_ YOU- DO YOU UNDERSTAND-”

 

Patrick delved into his scolding the minute the door closed behind them, but Pete only grinned at the frantic yelling, laughing occasionally at Patrick’s more colorful, inspired insults.

 

“PETE- IT’S NOT FUCKING FUNNY- IF YOU LAUGH AT ME AGAIN, I'LL TEAR YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF-”

 

Pete rolled his eyes, moving forwards to press the redhead to the hallway wall behind him. Pete gazed down at the younger man with lidded eyes, and a subtle bite of his lip, as an easy smile spread across his face. Okay, so...Patrick was at a loss for words. Sure, Pete's expression was extremely arousing, and sure, having Pete pressed against him was doing... _something_ , to him, but, fuck- Patrick was mad. He was still mad, and nothing could-

 

 

Pete’s mouth could go to hell.

 

 

Just as Patrick had tried to pick up his ranting again, Pete had pushed his lips into Patrick’s, tilting his head and confidently moving his hands down to Patrick’s hips, pulling the younger man flush against him.  
Patrick whined, head thudding back onto the wooden wall as Pete moved to mouth over his neck, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, quick laps of his tongue, and gentle bites, teeth squeezing down on sensitive skin. “I’m sorry about that whole... _thing_.”

 

Patrick tried a glare, but it only lasted for for a second before it melted into a moan, paired with a slow, deep eye roll, as Pete dragged his flat, wet tongue along the length of the slender neck, leaving a burning, damp stripe across the pale skin.

When Patrick was firmly back down to earth, he could only muster a weak response to Pete’s _obvious lie_ of being sorry. “No you’re not.”

The siren laughed against his neck, sending delicious vibrations through Patrick's veins, before nipping at the crook gently, and speaking in a low, charming voice. “I just like elaborate names, don’t judge me too harshly, huh?”

Patrick’s hand moved up to drag through the short dark strands, holding back moans and hip bucks as Pete’s ministrations got sloppier, and more frenzied.

 

Fuck, he was _still_ mad, but- fuck, this totally made up for all the bullshit Pete had put him through today. Not that he’d tell Pete that. The siren was _not_ getting off the hook that easy.

 

Suddenly, Pete's touches stopped, and all Patrick felt was Pete exhaling over his skin, hot breath rolling over the damp streaks his tongue had left. Pete pulled his head up, settling his face inches from Patrick’s, and smiling easily at the younger man’s blown pupils, before he dove in for a kiss- fast, rough and deep.

Patrick mewled, eyes clamping shut, and gasping shakily into Pete’s mouth as his smaller frame trembled. Fuck, he’d never been kissed like _that_ -

 

Then Pete was gone.

 

Patrick’s eyes crooked open to see the siren wandering over to the back room, before he turned with a smug half-grin, still casually stumbling backwards.

 

 

“Night, ‘Trick.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trash, I know and I'm sorry lol


	10. Shadows To Calm The Storm

               

"Why did you think that was a good idea?- No, wait- Why did you think _any_ of that was a good idea?"

 

Patrick's voice was stern, brow furrowed, and eyes focused as he rested his forearms on the side of his guitar, chin leaning down on them; Patrick's parents had left last evening, after staying for one long, arduous week. Pete's ridiculous persona had remained firmly in place the whole time, and Patrick's life had turned into an endless struggle of juggling his family, Pete and Brendon.

He was exhausted, to say to least- So he'd promised himself a lazy day; No fishing, no animals, just lying in bed with Pancakes (Well, the dog had eventually retreated downstairs to bark at the horses through the window), Waffles, and Pete.

 

Well, it had _started_ as a lie-in, but it had quickly evolved into Patrick playing guitar, while Pete watched him with a lovesick gaze, and wide, amazed eyes.

Patrick had never been more grateful to have a guitar back in his hands; As his fingers shifted over and strummed the strings, Patrick truly realized just how calming it was- He’d really missed playing it.

As Patrick plucked out a simplified melody of Life on Mars, Pete watched with soft eyes and a lazy smile, eyes easily drifting from pale, delicate fingers, to concentrated expression, to strings.

 

Oh yeah. _Pete_.

 

Pete seemingly showed no remorse for getting them into such a tricky situation. Nope, no remorse _at all_ \- there was only mirth in the brown eyes that stared back at him. Pete sighed at the question, despite his grin remaining firmly in place, "Look, Patrick...You- You were super stressed out, and-" Whiskey-browns suddenly became more honest, and more serious, "I dunno...I didn't want you to take it so seriously."

 

Patrick blinked softly, brow furrowing of its own accord.

 

So...to get this straight- Pete had made up a fake persona, had been reeling off dirty song lyrics to his parents, and had almost given Patrick a panic attack...to make him laugh.

 

Wow.

 

That was unbelievably stupid.

 

...But... _so fucking cute_ , goddamnit, Pete was the embodiment of a dumb, excited puppy, he couldn't _deal_ -

 

Pete smiled softly, eyes gentle and dazed.

 

And Patrick was done for.

 

Patrick's face split into an involuntary grin, eyes tearing up slightly. He moved a hand to caress Pete's cheek, chest jolting with silent, sobs of laughter. Fuck. He loved-

 

Pete kissed him, shuffling over under the sea of comforters to lean up over the blonde, shoving the guitar away carefully, before his forearms settled either side of his head. Patrick moaned quietly, tilting his head as his arms moved to lazily wrap around Pete's shoulders, hands pulling at the dark strands above the nape of Pete's neck. The siren exhaled softly, shifting to deepen the kiss, cocking his head and lips slotting further into Patrick's.

 

Then Pete rolled his hips.

 

The redhead gasped breathlessly into Pete's mouth, hands moving down to grab at the lean shoulders as his nails dug in slightly, leaving shallow, crescent-shaped indents in the tanned skin. Pete lips left Patrick's mouth, but they quickly attached themselves to Patrick's neck, dragging his open mouth over the prominent veins, tongue tracing lightly. Patrick moaned softly, cheek dropping against the crown of Pete's head, hands tugging harder at dark strands.

 

"Pete...?"

 

His response was only a content, inquisitive hum.

 

"You- Where- How- How are you so-?"

 

Pete's laugh rang through the room, and the sound sent pleasant static buzzes through Patrick's nerves. The was silence for a moment, before Pete nicked his head up, squinting at Patrick with a charming half-grin. "...I read some... _cool books_ , remember?"

 

"Are you serious?"

 

Pete only grinned, laughing quietly, and moving back down to nip at Patrick's Adam's apple, making Patrick whine softly. Patrick felt goosebumps erupt all over his skin, and he shivered at the sudden chill that blew over the room, fingers weaving into Pete's hair again. He felt Pete lap at his neck softly, before the older man moved to kiss at his jawbone. Teeth squeezed down on the angle of Patrick's jaw, and the younger man moaned lowly as he felt Pete suckling on the skin. "You're- _ah_ , you're gonna leave a bruise, Pete- c'mon."

 

Pete bit down again, smiling at Patrick's whine, before he moved over the redhead's ear, lapping at the helix for a second, whispering with a gravelled voice.

 

"That's the point."

 

Patrick's couldn't stifle a strained whine, and his hips rolled quickly, head flopping back onto one of the soft pillows that were strewn over the bed. Pete twisted his head to the side, biting down on the bone just beside Patrick's chin, and locking his jaw firmly, drinking in the heady moans coming from the younger man.

Pete dragged his tongue along the sharp jaw edge, before sweetly, and chastely kissing Patrick's cheek, leaning up to grin lovingly at the strawberry-blonde.

Patrick dragged his fingers over Pete's jaw, smiling softly at the sharp stubble that had taken root there. Patrick made a mental note to teach Pete how to shave- before Pete took his shirt off, and every thought in Patrick's mind blanked away.

The redhead gave a quiet mewl, flat hands dragging over the ridges on Pete's chest, feeling every dip and rise beneath the skin. Pete made a small, happy sound, grabbing one of Patrick's hands by the wrist, and pulling it to his cheek with a happy sigh, pressing a soft kiss to the pale palm.

 

Dear god, Pete had to stop being so cute- It was bad for Patrick's health.

 

In one, swift movement, Patrick sat up, burying his hands in dark hair, and shifting himself forwards to straddle Pete's lap. The siren beamed, excitement flashing through his eyes like a bolt. He sat back on his heels, pulling Patrick closer, while purposefully rocking his hips in the process. The younger man groaned, forehead dropping into the taut, bare shoulder.

 

"Pete?"

 

"Uh huh?"

 

Not being able to find the words, Patrick decided to speak with his actions instead. Patrick bit into Pete's neck, suddenly urged on by a spark of confidence as his fingers squirmed under Pete's grey sweatpants, and into dark boxers, hands wrapping around a half hard cock. Pete gave a breathy gasp, before he descended into whines. His hands gripped Patrick's ass, kneading the firm flesh as he mewled into the redhead's shoulder.

Patrick bit his lip at Pete's ministrations, and finally found the resolve to slowly jerk the cock nestled in his hands. His fingers squeezed, raked and twisted, subtly pulling the member out of the confines of the boxers, letting it spring free. The blonde threw his hands over Pete's shoulders, licking at the shell of his ear as he swivelled his hips, watching Pete's cock twitch as it was trapped between their stomachs.

 

Pete moaned wantonly in his ear, hips jerking and twitching upwards unevenly as his grip on Patrick only got tighter. Patrick needed to hurry this along, he could feel his own cock straining in his boxers, and fuck- _the noises Pete was making_ \- holy shit.

 

Patrick shifted down from Pete's lap, leaning down to wrap a hand around the base of Pete's- now decently hard, cock. He opened his mouth, breathing out teasingly over the head, and huffing in amusement when he heard Pete's breath hitch. His mouth moved away from the member, instead settling at the join of Pete's hip and groin, biting and sucking a dark, noticeable hickey there, before shuffling down, and doing the same to Pete's inner thigh- leaving a trail of dark, purple-blue marks.

The blonde moved up again, and pressed a few quick kitten licks to the slit. He trailed his fingers up along the underside, all while Pete cursed under his breath, hips jolting up of their own accord. Patrick rubbed his legs together, biting his lip, and trying to stifle the urge to just bury Pete inside of him dry.

 

In a split second decision, Patrick took the dark flushed head into his mouth, suckling softly. His ears pricked up at the sound of Pete's spluttered gasp, and the younger man moaned around the length in his mouth when Pete threaded his hands through soft, strawberry-blonde strands, tugging roughly.

Patrick shuddered, bobbing his head further down, and slowly starting to work his hand, fingers squeezing and twisting around the velvety shaft- all while Pete's soft whines became desperate cries.

 

Patrick felt pretty proud of himself- He'd reduced the siren into a melted puddle of moans, whimpers and pleads, all topped off with twitching hips.

 

The blonde forced his head down further, only stopping when his gag reflex kicked in. Patrick exhaled deeply, slowly working his tongue to lap at the dorsal veins on the underside of Pete's cock. He moaned softly, eyes rolling under his eyelids as he shifted his free hand to jerk at his own, admittedly smaller, member.

 

"P-Patrick- Shit, c'mon-" Pete's voice was somewhere between a begging whine and a demanding growl, and Patrick knew he didn't want to delay it anymore. He pulled off of Pete with a lewd pop, and shifted his boxers away, before straddling the taut lap again, trapping Pete's cock behind the curve of his backside. Patrick smiled at Pete, eyes somewhere between mischief and pure want.

 

Patrick pulled his right hand up, licking at his fingers, while his blown eyes burned into Pete's the whole time. Unbidden, but appreciated, Pete ran his tongue over the back of Patrick's fingers, making a point of swirling around joints.

The younger man bit his lip, hips rutting backwards and relishing in the heat of Pete's cock pressed against the base of his back. The gentle lapping came to an end as Patrick moved his hand away, shifting his shoulder back to press the fingers into his entrance, hissing as his index pushed past the tight ring of muscle. Pete furrowed his brow at the discomfort, and opted to distract the redhead with a searing kiss, lips slotting together sloppily, but effortlessly. Patrick exhaled shakily, slowly moving his finger in and out, before he added a second- moaning in something like agonizing pleasure. As another cunning distraction, Pete bit the middle of Patrick's neck, lapping gently at the marks he'd left behind.

A third finger, crooking into his prostate, and Patrick was losing his mind. He gave short, steady groans, teeth clamped down on his bottom lip, and fingers thrusting, squirming and scissoring as he got more and more impatient.

Pete was watching his expressions and movements with lidded eyes, finally picking up on what exactly Patrick was doing, and fuck- the unwavering, burning gaze only made Patrick more desperate.

 

The older man licked at Patrick's plump upper lip, and the blonde was finished.

 

Patrick pulled his fingers away, leaving him miserably empty and wanting. He lifted his hips, kneeling up to grasp Pete's cock in his fist, pulling it between them, and leaning down to it again. Patrick took Pete between his swollen lips again, bobbing once, twice, three times- until the sheen of saliva was thick and prominent. The younger man hovered for a moment, tongue swirling in his mouth, before he dribbled spit onto the head, spreading it over with his fingers, and making a point of grinning up at Pete.

 

Pete looked 100% ready to throw him to the floor and fuck him mercilessly, but for many things the siren lacked- he had a _ridiculous_ amount of self-restraint.

 

The blonde straddled Pete's lap again, hand firm around the base of his- now painfully hard, cock. He exhaled shakily, and Pete surged forwards, both pairs of lips hovering over each other, breathing shakily and deeply. Patrick pressed the head against the rim, biting his lip to break skin, before slowly, and arduously, sinking down, with one, long sigh.

Patrick felt so full, so complete. He tipped his head back, listening to Pete's pants and grunts as his hips rutted upwards, and his mouth found pale collarbones, trailing small red marks that would soon become purple bruises.

 

Patrick moaned as Pete gripped his hips, pale hands moving to cover and encourage brown ones. Pete gave short, needy pants into Patrick's neck, thrusting upwards in even, deep and rolling movements. Patrick's arms lay over taut shoulders, cheek pressed into black hair as the jolts sped up, the steady sound of skin slapping skin bouncing off of the walls.

Another long, high moan fell from Patrick's raw lips, and Pete-

 

 

"I love you- _fuck_ \- I love you-"

 

 

Patrick froze.

 

Another thrust, Pete's head jabbing into his prostate, and Patrick's feelings tumbled free.

 

"Fuck- I love you, _ah_ \- I love you, I love you- _uh_ , Pete- fu-"

 

Pete's lips slotted into his again, and tanned hands shifted to loop around the backs of knees, pulling the smaller man closer, and simultaneously, pushing him down into the mattress.

The siren leaned up, biting his lip as his gaze drifted his cock buried deeply in Patrick. Pete pushed Patrick's knees up to his chest, before leaning forwards, hands pressed at the side of Patrick's head, supporting himself over the younger man.

 

The sharp hips rolled slow and deep, each one lazily brushing over the expanse of Patrick's sweet spot. The blonde's moans increased in frequency and pitch at each thrust, and he watched Pete through lidded eyes; The siren's pupils were blown, neck, shoulders, chest, so much skin marked with bites, welts and scratches- all Patrick's work. His hair was sticking up and mussed from Patrick's fingers, and his face was flushed a light tinge of blue, while swollen lips released slow, steady exhales.

 

And Patrick wasn't much better.

 

Pale skin littered in red, purple and pink, lips parted in sinful moans, and hair ruffled and wild- as a result of both bed head and sex.

In a moment, Pete's hips picked up the pace, pounding forwards in rough, fast strokes, and Patrick's mind went blank, head tipping to the side on a pillow.

Through the moans and pleads, Patrick dazedly grabbed Pete's left hand, lips sinking down over his ring finger, and biting deep indents around the digit, just above the knuckle. Pete gave a stuttered moan, pulling his fingers away, falling forwards onto both hands again, as his hips only got more demanding.

 

Patrick kicked out his legs at the sudden change in angle and speed, nails scratching long, dark, angry lines down Pete's back, as loud mewls and moans fell from Patrick's mouth, along with desperate, wanton sobs. He was _so close_ \- _fuck_ -

Pete grinned through the pants and rough jolts, and his hand dove down to clasp around Patrick's left wrist, returning the old gesture. He sucked Patrick's ring finger into his mouth, biting down just above the knuckle, and burying his teeth down as Patrick cried out- face contorting and scrunching up.

 

"Pete- please- I love- _ah_ \- don't stop- _fuck_ , _c'mon_ -"

 

At the beautiful pleads, Pete dropped the pale wrist, pressing his lips against Patrick's again and willing his hips to go as fast as they could, hammering into Patrick's with all their might. Patrick was sure they'd leave a bruise- but fuck, it only served to make him painfully harder.

Patrick's cock twitched with sparks as it rubbed against both men's stomachs, encircled by damp, sweated skin, and at one of Patrick's desperate moans- Pete's hand jumped to Patrick's member, clumsy, and inexperienced as it twisted over the length once- and Patrick's vision went white.

 

A strained stifled sound squeaked from Patrick's throat, powdery, blank eyes the size of full moons, back arching, thighs trembling, and head leaning back, neck on display, as one, final, long groan rose from his chest, cracking adorably as it escaped into the air from his abused lips.

Pete's teeth were on his throat in an instant, sighing a guttural groan into Patrick's skin, hips stuttering to a stop. Patrick felt Pete spill into him, and he felt as though he were floating- completely dazed and enamoured. Pale fingers hooked into dark strands of hair, pulling Pete's head up to press sweet kisses to his mouth. Pete sighed, arms wrapping under Patrick's soft waist, pulling the smaller man against him. Patrick hooked his legs around Pete's hips, smiling tiredly at the older man, voice ringing out in a soft, loving voice, as he ran a hand through dark hair, "I love you."

 

Patrick felt so damn sappy, so disgustingly cheesy, and just completely head-over-heels- more than he'd ever felt before. It was sudden- like a wave washing over him, but deeply rooted, and carved into his very bones, and Patrick felt as though he'd feel that way forever. Pete grinned, kissing Patrick's forehead, before pressing lips to both eyelids, then to the tip of a pink-flushed nose- and finally, to plump lips, "I love you too, 'Trick."

 

Content and tired, Pete rolled off of the smaller man, instantly pulling him spooned into his chest, nose nuzzling fair strands. Patrick smiled tiredly, before his nose wrinkled at the stickiness leaking out onto his thighs, and the smears that were strewn across his chest. With a heavy sigh, he opted to ignore it, and resolved to make a note to clean the sheets later.

Pete was warm and solid, and Patrick found himself melting against him, slowly drifting into sleep before-

 

"Fuck, that was so much better than just fertilising eggs."

 

"... _What_...?"

 

"Dude- we're like _fish_ , we-"

 

"-On second thought, spare me the details."

 

Patrick smiled at Pete's loud laugh, and only buried his face further into the crook of his neck, inhaling the heady scent of sex and pheromones that clung to Pete's skin. They shuddered at a sudden breeze of cold air, and Pete reached down, fisting his free hand- that wasn't wrapped around Patrick's waist, into the comforter, pulling the many layers of blankets back over them.

Patrick smiled broadly, eyes crooking open to peek up at Pete gratefully. Pete kissed the tip of his nose, grinning tiredly as his head tipped onto the pillow. Patrick tangled his legs with Pete's, sighing happily and nuzzling into tanned collarbones.

 

"I love you, Patrick."

 

"I love you too, Pete."

 

Patrick had never been happier.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The night brought a storm.

Thunder rumbled through the clouds, rain pelted in buckets over the land, and lighting blinded the skies.

Pete sat at the window, once again shrouded in a clean hoodie and sweatpants. His legs were crossed, Pancake's head resting on his thigh, as the siren scratched behind her ear. His head was tilted, and brown eyes found themselves locked on to the sky, entranced by watching the storm rage the sea and air. Between the rolling thunder and crashes of lightning, Pete's ears pricked up at the sounds of spoons stirring in mugs, clattering against ceramic, and content, tuneful, and downright angelic humming.

 

Pete smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick stepped up the staircase gingerly, balancing two mugs tentatively, and being careful not to spill coffee everywhere.

Power cuts meant that the house was dark for the most part, bar a few torches that Patrick had fished out of some dusty utility drawer. They'd been messing around with the torches, and Patrick had taught Pete the ' _flashlight-under-the-chin_ ' trick for telling horror stories- and he'd immediately regretted it.

 

Pete was very enthusiastic about horror stories and urban legends to say the least- despite not knowing many.

 

He'd started out by making up 'terrifying stories' in which the monsters always ended up resembling human fishermen. After hearing around twelve, _way too similar_ tales, Patrick had decided to tell him a few of the classics- and Pete had been thoroughly entranced the whole way through, eyes wide and mouth parted in horrified gasps at the right times.

Pete had been truly troubled at ' _The Licked Hand_ ' legend, and had promptly hugged Pancakes tightly, refusing to stop, or let her go- despite her vain struggles, because- ' _Dude, but, what if someone kills her and licks my hand?_ '

 

God, could Pete get any dorkier?

 

After the storm had began, Pete had insisted they stay up and watch, and while it had taken a lot of convincing, Patrick had finally buckled- Finally agreeing, but not without retreating downstairs to make coffee because goddamnit- Patrick wasn't a cyborg that could stay awake for entire nights at a time, and still be medically sane afterwards.

 

Patrick stepped into the room, smiling softly at Pete's inspired gaze, and at Pancake's soft, sleepy whines.

Without making a sound, Patrick strode over to the man, handing a mug down. Pete took it with a grin, and his amazed gaze now locked firmly on Patrick, as the blonde took a seat on the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest, and resting his cup on the bones, all while he nuzzled into the collar of his sweater.

There was silence as both gazes returned to the storm, only marred by occasional swirls of liquid, sips and breathing. It was perfect tranquility, and Patrick had never felt so deeply happy, and calm-

 

"Hey Patrick?"

 

Pete the destroyer of peace.

 

"Yeah Pete?"

 

"So, I saw this book on things called like- ' _Shadow puppets_ '?"

 

Patrick already knew where this was going.

 

And it wouldn't be peaceful.

 

Pete beamed with sly, crinkled eyes, holding up a flashlight, "I know you know what I'm talking about." The siren held the flashlight out insistently, and the pale man only stared for a second, eyes blank and disinterested, but- Fuck, Pete's smile was so fucking sweet, and he couldn't-

 

" _Fine_ ," Patrick took the flashlight, putting his mug down on the floor in front of him to free his hand, "What animal d'you want?"

 

"Oh _kick ass_ \- uh- wait!" Pete looked as though he'd just had an idea worthy of a Nobel Prize. "Do one I haven't seen yet!"

 

Well shit, that kinda defeated the purpose of shadow puppets.

 

Fuck, _fine_ \- Okay, so- no sheep, cows, horses, or chickens- oh, and no sea creatures. Patrick had some pretty slim pickings, before-

 

Wait, of course- how could he have forgotten?

 

The classics never die, kids.

 

Patrick clicked the flashlight on, and a beam of bright light burst forth. He aimed it at the wooden wall to his left, just above the dresser, and his free hand moved over the ray.

Patrick pressed his index finger and thumb together, while his other fingers straightened into slopes. And from the position of his fingers, a rabbit's head sprang to life on the wall.

 

Patrick even twitched its nose for dramatic effect- he was _that_ extra.

 

Pete squinted, before his eyes widened in childlike awe, and his voice was breathy and inspired. "Holy shit, that's amazing."

 

More, _slightly concerning_ silence, and Pete's voice rang out again- only, confused and interested this time.

 

"What is it?"

 

"It's a rabbit Pete."

 

"Huh," Pete furrowed his brow lightly, sipping at the coffee in his mug, before trying out the words in a scholarly, low voice. "... _A_... _rabbit_..."

 

Patrick watched the consideration in Pete's eyes, and he totally knew what was coming next-

 

 

"Are rabbits _actually real_ though? Like, I've never seen any, like- Are you sure they're not just _myths_ , or something-?"

 

  
  
Patrick only sighed, and prepared himself for another long zoology lesson.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. It Feels Like There's Oceans, Between Me And You Once Again

 

Patrick's eyes fluttered as he yawned, idly scrubbing a bowl clean in a sink of soapy water. He rinsed the suds away, before grabbing the nearest- slightly damp, red kitchen towel, and wiping away water droplets until the ceramic was dry.

 

His eyes froze on the ring of bite marks around his ring finger- deep and pale red.

 

It had been four months since Pete had bitten those onto his hand, and they hadn't disappeared. Indeed, none of the bruises had. The bite mark beside his chin, the hickey on his jaw, the striped bruises on his hipbones, the bites and suckles on his neck- they were all still there, clear as the day Pete had marked them.

 

When they hadn't disappeared after a week, Patrick had been freaked out- understandably.

 

Pete however, had quickly explained after the redhead had voiced his worries- but the explanation didn't make him feel any better, not at first, anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Pete?"

 

"Uh huh?"

 

Patrick was curled up on the couch, staring down at his left hand, and brow furrowed in stifled, panicked worry. "...Y'know how it's been a week since...well, since the _first_ -"

Pete only half-grinned, eyes flicking up from the pages of some random book he'd prised from the library- it was something dark and heavy about witch trials, and Patrick didn't understand how Pete could look so lax reading it. "Yeah?"

 

The strawberry-blonde bit the inside of his cheek, gaze falling back onto his hand, before drifting upwards again, trailing over Pete's hands; The right was scratching behind Pancake's ear- who was contently lying in Pete's lap, tail wagging softly with quiet whines. The left was holding the book in the center, thumb pressed into where the pages joined, and four long fingers curled over the spine- Ring finger marked with a clear, fresh-looking circle of teeth marks. Identical to the ones on Patrick's finger, but hiding a blue tinge instead of a red one.

 

"...The...marks, haven't uh- they haven't...gone-"

 

"Oh, they're not gonna." Pete's eyes fell back to the pages, and he shrugged casually- as though having permanent love bites was a totally normal thing.

 

Patrick's eyes were wide, and his mind was still working to fully understand what the fuck Pete was trying to say.

 

"...What?"

 

Pete glanced up again, eyes completely calm. "They're not gonna fade? You're always gonna have 'em? They're gonna be there 'til you die?"

 

Patrick had been gaping and he hadn't even realized it, so quickly snapping his jaw shut, and stifling the writhing panic in his stomach, he decided to fish for some goddamn clarification.

 

"Wait- okay. Just- just pretend like I'm a kid, or something-"

 

"Ew."

 

"I didn't mean it like _that_ , you idiot- I just- Explain it slow- What does that even mean? L-Like, they're gonna be there ' _forever_ '? I don't-"

 

Pete suddenly seemed to notice the blind confusion in Patrick's eyes, and he bit his tongue. "...Uh...so...it _might_ freak you out a little."

 

"Pete, I'm pretty sure it's impossible for me to get _more freaked out_ right now."

 

Pete blinked, nodding slowly in thought- before his face lit up with inspiration.

 

 

"Have you ever heard about swans?"

 

 

Patrick squinted.

 

What the fuck did swans have to do with this mildly terrifying situation?

 

"Okay, I'm assuming that face means you have." Pete tried to stifle a grin at Patrick's scrunched up face, exhaling quietly and continuing calmly. "Well uh...y'know how they like, only fuck one other dude?"

 

"What-?"

 

"Well, they're like- _Mongoose_ , I think- s'that the word? I'm not sure-"

 

"...Monogamous? As in, mate for life?"

 

Pete snapped his fingers and pointed at Patrick, beam finally splitting onto his face. "Yes! Exactly!"

 

Okay, so, thanks for the lesson _about_ _swans_ , Pete, but-

 

Wait.

 

_Wait_ -

 

 

 

"Sirens are like that too."

 

 

 

Patrick's jaw fell open again, eyes flooding with something blank as his heart sped up. They- They were- Oh fuck- What-

 

"Y-You mean, w-we're-"

 

"Mated for life, yes."

 

Patrick fell unreadable and silent as Pete continued his babbling of vague explanation. "Well, I mean, technically, only _I_ am, y'know since you're human, and you're like- _free_. You can like, go fuck someone else, but I'll get depressed and die, so, y'know- try to _avoid_ doing that, but like, I mean, if you ever get sick of me, go ahead. Oh! And it also happens if you die- I'll _literally_ _die_ of depression- and I don't mean that in a cute way, I mean like: _I'll die_ , so, y'know, be careful.

Always watch out for safety hazards. I'm also gonna be a lot clingier, and like- have like _A LOT_ of anxiety when you leave, so- Oh- and the bruises thing! Yeah, that's just part of it, they're kinda permanent. Like, we actually try to avoid biting and stuff the first time, just 'cause it'll be there, like- _forever_ , but y'know, _YOU_ didn't know, and I like, _forgot_ , the minute you took your boxers off, so-"

 

"Pete."

 

"Yeah?"

 

He'd almost started ranting about how they'd only known each other for less than a year, and holy shit Pete, are you insane-?

 

...But Patrick's words died in his throat, and he only stared down at the ring of teeth marks.

 

Forever.

 

Huh.

 

He wasn't even mad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick leaned over, bouncing up on his toes to open a cupboard that was almost out of his range, before managing to slot the bowl in with a stretched arm, and strained fingers, just poking it over the edge. Patrick fell back down onto his heels with a calm sigh, scrubbing his eyes with his fist as he glanced out of the window.

 

The sea looked calm enough today; Tinged spruce blue, waving lazily, as white clouds leisurely frozen in the sky. Sure it was a little _later_ than he usually went out- Patrick tended to leave in the early morning, and it was around five o'clock right now, but, c'mon, Patrick had woken up late; Because seriously, who could resist getting out of a bed that housed both a dog, a puffin, and an adorable water bottle that mumbled in his sleep?

 

Nobody- that's who.

 

However, Patrick was properly dressed for going out to sea; A hoodie, pyjama pants and mismatched socks wouldn't really cut it out there.

 

"No, don't _sell me_ to the _sunflower_ factory _._ "

 

He heard a dazed whiny mumble from upstairs over the balcony, and instantly had to stifle a snort with his sleeve. Pete was quite the sleep talker, and while some people may have found it grating to wake up to someone saying random shit in the small hours- Patrick only found it hilarious.

 

With one last amused noise, and a quick shake of his head, Patrick strode down the hallway, listening to Pete's faint, sleepy rants as he gave quiet laughs at each loud string of words that came from the siren.

 

With quiet, light footfalls, he stepped up the staircase, fingertips tracing the walls as he moved upwards- trying not the wake Pete.

Patrick stepped into the room, gaze immediately shirking over to the bed; Pete was curled up in a cocoon of comforters, while a very awake Pancakes pawed at his face. It only served to make Pete's nose wrinkle, before he sleepily grabbed the small dog and pulled her to his chest instead- she only wiggled for a second before giving in, tail thumping happily against the sheets. She barked, and Pete only sniffed, before grinning and whispering in an amused voice, "Brutal."

 

Patrick stifled another snort of laughter, hand pressing over his mouth and eyes clenching shut, as he tried to calm himself down. With a quiet, shaky exhale, Patrick moved over to the dresser, crouching down- but not without occasional, cautious glances back towards Pete.

Pale fingers wrapped around drawer knobs, pulling back with a grimace as the wood scraped a little-

 

 

"NO LINDA. I HATE GOLF. _WHY ARE YOU MAKING ME PLAY THIS?_ "

 

 

Patrick's head dropped, twisting his head to bury his mouth in his shoulder as he shook with quiet laughter.

He exhaled shakily again, with a grin at Pete, before rooting around in the drawer; An old t-shirt, a thick sweater, jeans- and Patrick grabbed them all, standing up straight again.

 

A very quiet and careful dressing session later, and Patrick starting heading to the top of the stairs, before-

 

"I don't care if they won't let you through customs, I _still love you_."

 

Patrick bit back another laugh, before his face dropped a little, and he turned to gaze back at Pete. The siren hadn't been lying about separation anxiety; Every time Patrick left without a word of goodbye, a kiss or a note- Pete would get worried.

 

Well, 'worried' was really an understatement.

 

It was more like- deeply tormented, and/or disturbed.

 

Patrick would often find Pete curled up in bed, or the couch on a good day, just glaring into thin air; And the minute the blonde walked through the door, Pete was on him in a second- possessive, anxious and frenzied.

 

So, if he really wanted to avoid stressing Pete out- he should really say goodbye.

 

...But Pete looked really cute when he was asleep, and Patrick couldn't bring himself to wake him. He finally settled with writing a note, and leaving a kiss on the siren's forehead.

 

A quick dart downstairs to fetch a pen and paper, and Patrick was back by the bed. He left the note on the bedside table, and leaned down, softly pushing back a few mussed dark strands that had fallen into brown eyes. Patrick smiled, running a stripe across Pete's forehead and making a lion king joke in his head, that cause a bubble of laughter he'd seriously had to stifle.

With a quiet exhale through his nose, Patrick leaned down, pressing his lips to the warm forehead.

Pete gave a content, amused hum, before Patrick moved over his ear, kissing on the shell before whispering soft, lovesick words. "I love you."

 

"I'm into potpourri now."

 

Patrick pressed his mouth into a straight line, eyes clamping shut as he tried to stifle another laugh, and finally managing to speak in an amused whisper.

 

"That's great Pete."

 

The blonde backed away quietly, descending the stairs, and not being able to hold back a snort- which burst into laughter, as Pete's voice rang out again.

 

"I'm gonna need a _whole bunch_ of sharpened pencils."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete's eyes shot open, and he moved with a jolt, coaxing a surprised bark from Pancakes. He sat up, rolling his shoulder blades and stretching with a grimace and a hiss. Crooking his neck side to side, Pete glanced around, brow furrowing as he noticed Patrick's absence from the bed. Maybe he was downstairs...Yeah, that was probably it.

Pete turned to the balcony, leaning up to peer over at the front door.

 

"Patrick? You down there?"

 

No response, and Pete frowned.

 

His ears pricked up at the sound of paper rustling, and his head flicked to the side to find Pancakes nuzzling at a piece of paper with interested sniffs.

 

Before Pancakes assumed the paper was food, Pete snatched it up with one, graceful move, and unfolded it, bringing it to eye-level. Squinting at the paper, Pete's eyes trailed over the lines, gaze flicking back and forth.

It was short and sweet, and it calmed Pete down infinitely.

 

 

_Hey Pete,_

_Just went fishing, didn't want to wake you._

_I'll be back soon, four hours at most._

_I love you._

 

_Patrick_

 

 

Pete smiled easily, flopping back down into bed, and instantly collapsing into giggles as Pancakes made a point of climbing over him, licking at his face inbetween happy noises. "Ah, c'mon dude-" Pete laughed with a bright grin, sitting up with the squirming puppy in his arms, tail thumping against his stomach.

 

"You hungry?"

 

A happy bark.

 

"Cool, me too."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four hours until Patrick came back.

 

Pete cracked a lid of a tuna can open, placing it on the floor and letting Pancakes go wild. He laughed at the furiously wagging tail, before he turned to the fridge, opening the door and crouching down, eyes squinted in contemplation.

 

He saw a telltale bulk wrapped in white plastic, and reached in, unwrapping the layers and fishing out a sea bass. Fish firmly in his hand, the closed the fridge, and moved over to the counter, jumping up to sit on it- the way Patrick always reprimanded, ' _We have a perfectly good table Pete- get off the damn counter_ '.

 

Pete dug his teeth into the scales, sighing in frustration at how tricky the task had become since losing his natural teeth.

 

Human teeth sucked.

 

Well, they had _some_ strengths- but he missed the spiky horror of fifteen rows.

 

Nipping at raw flesh, Pete sniffed, leaning forwards and glancing out of the window. The sea was pebble grey, and light grey clouds puffed over a blank white, blue tinged sky.

 

He wondered if Patrick had caught anything yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three hours until Patrick came back.

 

Pete, an intellectual, was reading a book.

 

It was about 'law'; Some weird human thing where people argued endlessly about what was right and wrong- eventually coming to conclusions about who should be punished for what. Pete found it interesting; Sirens tended to resolve differences by biting and hissing at each other, but this was fine too.

And hey- anything and everything human thing he could read about was new and exciting to him. So when he arrived at a fifty-page long argument about the death penalty, Pete wasn't too distraught.

 

He heard a tapping, and glanced up at the window, laying eyes on a pale horse that nuzzled the window frame.

 

WAIT, FUCK- THE HORSE- _THE ANIMALS_.

 

Pete hadn't checked the animals- ugh, goddamnit.

 

Stifling a groan and sighing instead, Pete snapped his book shot, making a quick note of his page number- because he refused to dog-ear the pages, that was fucking sacrilege. All before got up from the couch, and headed up to the bedroom.

He'd only really had to replace black sweatpants with jeans, and pull on some worn, borrowed sneakers before heading outside.

 

The grass was mercifully dry- Get fucked _mud_ , Pete wouldn't have to clean his sneakers today. With an amused huff, he scratched the pale horse that had cantered over to him behind the ear.

 

Sure, he knew he was treating a horse like a dog, but Pete didn't have much experience, he could be forgiven.

 

"Are you okay, dude? Sick, or anything?"

 

A huff was his response, and Pete nodded, lip jutting out.

 

"That'll do, horse."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two hours until Patrick came back.

 

Pete had finally finished washing goddamn eggs, fucking chickens, shit-

 

Okay, okay- _fine_ , it was totally worth it. Patrick made great omelettes, and Pete was extremely happy he'd decided to 'wife' him.

Pancakes whined from the ground, pawing at his leg with wide, pleading eyes. Pete only shook his head. "Nah, dude. You'll probably get real sick." Pancakes gave a short bark that practically screamed 'Try me', but Pete only leaned down to scratched her head.

 

Pete washed his hands, and as he dried them with a dry, red kitchen towel, his gaze automatically moved over to the bookcase. He squinted, making out a fun looking title, and grinning immediately.

 

_Animal Farm_ \- huh, _awesome_.

 

Pete lived on a farm. With animals on it. So naturally, he was drawn in.

He tossed the towel down onto the counter, and strode across the room, crossing the kitchen/living room boundary. Pete fished the cool-sounding book from the book case, and retreated to the armchair, pulling up his legs and crossing them, settling the book in his lap. Pancakes jumped up into his side, cuddling against him, and the siren laughed loudly, before leaning down and letting his eyes drift over the words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One hour until Patrick came back.

 

Okay.

 

So.

 

Animal farm.

 

Pete sensed that the book wasn't really about animals.

 

Perhaps it was a big metaphor for something, perhaps the writer was just going through a hard time, perhaps it was a human brand of humour Pete just didn't understand.

 

Well, whatever the case, Pete had eventually decided to stop reading, and had moved onto a more...lighthearted activity.

 

Mainly strumming Patrick's guitar awkwardly.

 

He was really glad Patrick wasn't around to hear it.

 

He wasn't very good yet.

 

Patrick kept making sporting tries at teaching Pete guitar, and slowly but surely, the sounds were getting less 'ear-bleedingly-awful'- and Pete was pretty stoked.

 

Biting his lip, furrowing his brow, and moving his fingers, Pete played a clunky, yet recognizable melody. He grinned, wiggling in his seat proudly, and glancing over at Pancakes- who was now sat on the couch contently. "Was that good?"

 

A happy bark was his response, and Pete only grinned. "Thanks dude."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five hours after Patrick should have come back.

 

Pete was sat at the bedroom window, knees to his chest, mouth buried in his knees, and eyes sharp and wide, staring out over the dark, yet still calm, sea critically.

He was a mess; Eyebags, messy hair, trembling and unspeakably skittish.

 

Patrick hadn't come back. Pete's mind had started taking the worst possible routes, torturing him with horrible possibilities.

 

Pancakes could sense his discomfort, and had taken to curling up at his feet, whining softly to fill the silent, dark house with _something_ other than soft, deep breathing.

 

Pete was scared.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seven hours after Patrick should have come back.

 

A storm.

 

There was a storm.

 

Raging, loud, thundering- the scariest, most violent storm Pete had ever laid eyes on.

 

The tide was high, and the dark, freezing, and murky waves crashed angrily, against the cliff face- swallowing up all the black sand, and gulping down all the sea smoothed rocks.

 

Rain patters made him tense; The grating, repetitive sounds were loud against the wooden roof.

 

Lightning flashed through the sky, blinding him momentarily with white flashes.

 

Rolls of thunder deafened his ears, making his skin itch uncomfortably.

 

Pete had always liked storms.

 

He didn't like them anymore.

 

Pete's bloodshot eyes flicked down to the waves, locking on the horizon.

 

Patrick was out fishing.

 

He couldn't stand it.

 

He couldn't just sit still, and wait for Patrick to find his way home.

 

In a dazed flurry, Pete stood, and strode down the stairs- face blank and breathing oddly calm. Pancakes whine pleadingly from behind him, her barks only getting more terrified and infinitely louder as Pete pushing the white door open. He stepped out, clicked the front door closed, and strode across the wet grass- that was more like a marsh of mud now. His feet were cold- socks drenched through to stick to his skin.

 

Pete soldiered over to the rocky steps, gaze not faltering from the sea once. He stepped down, careful to not slip on mud and water.

 

Patrick had pulled him up these once.

 

Must have been hard- siren tails were notoriously heavy.

 

But Patrick had done it anyway.

 

The rain soaked through his clothes alarmingly rapidly, drowning his hair and clotting his nostrils. He hardly let himself blink, stomach writhing and physically pained every time his gaze moved away from the waves.

 

There wasn't even a slither of black sand- just swirling, rocking water.

 

Pete stared.

 

He wanted to find Patrick.

 

He _needed_ to find Patrick.

 

Pete pulled his hoodies and shirt off together, before visibly and deeply twitching at the rain and cold air that pelted his skin. Pete shoved his sweatpants down, stepping out of them and leaning down to grab them, putting them on the step behind him.

Pete took off his boxers, and then his socks, leaving him completely exposed to the elements.

 

Pete stepped down the last few ridges, eyes locked on the water. He wondered if he looked crazy right now- If he did, well, he really didn't feel it. He was calm. Tranquil. Determined.

 

Pete's feet stepped down onto a submerged ridge, tensing at the freezing water.

 

He was gonna find Patrick.

 

He kept stepping down, slowly, breathing steady and deep. The water came up to his knees.

 

He was gonna find Patrick.

 

Whimpers started bubbling from Pete's throat, body refusing and pleading him to get away from the deathly cold.

 

He was gonna find Patrick.

 

His hips were submerged, hands curled into fists under the surface.

 

He was gonna find Patrick.

 

Sharp, icy water lapped at Pete's sharp collarbones. He felt sick. Head spinning, body tensing up, and breathing becoming quick, desperate and frantic, as the whines got louder, and became desperate pants.

 

He was gonna find Patrick.

 

Pete forced his head down, eyes squeezing closed to shut out salty water. His body untensed, surrendering to the cold as skin turned pale, before spreading over in blue.

He breathed in, in a moment of panic- and brisk, ice-cold water invaded his nostrils, shooting unbearable pain through his system as the liquid rushed up through his nose, reaching and freezing his brain.

 

Pete felt kinda like he was dying.

 

He wasn't scared, or panicky as he floated in the water.

 

He felt betrayed.

 

His body, his biology- what he truly was, had completely let him down.

 

White spread behind his eyes, and ringing flooded his ears when-

 

Pete jolted.

 

Gills splitting open from his skin, and pumping frantically.

 

He felt his bones crack and pop, feeling his vision clouding over with black- before everything became crisp and clear, and the seawater didn't hurt his eyes anymore. Legs fusing, while he quickly found himself looking down at his hands; Digits were pruning over instantly, and human teeth fell from his mouth, pelting to the dark, murky depths. Pete watched fins pop out of his forearms, he felt bones cracking and popping everywhere- and everything froze for a moment- mind and nerves icing over.

 

 

 

Pete flicked his tail.

 

 

 


	12. Death Stranding

 

Patrick's eyes were closed.

 

He was buried in a pile of snow; His dad and his brother had been shovelling snow off of the drive all day, and they'd made a huge, mountainous heap of the heavy powder in the yard.

 

Kevin and Megan always liked messing with Patrick- Their little dumb, naive brother who they could convince of _anything_ \- be it of ghosts, urban legends, or favours.

Just like that one time in cub scouts when Kevin, and a few other older kids, had told Patrick that if he left his tent- he'd die. He’d get eaten by some horrific beast. Patrick had been so afraid, and so convinced that everything they’d told him about was gonna get him- that he’d totally peed in his tent, despite having a stupidly heavy conscious berating him about it- ‘Cause Patrick had _morals_.

 

This time, they'd told him mom's favourite necklace was under the heap- Kevin had accidentally dropped it when him and dad had started shovelling snow; Patrick was so distraught for his mom, and was so innocent, that he didn't even consider _why_ Kevin would have had the necklace in the first place; When it wasn’t on his mom’s neck, laying across her collarbones- it was always in a shiny, polished, carved wooden box, that sat on top of their parents’ on parents dresser proudly.

 

He hadn't noticed them stifling laughter when Kevin had asked him to crawl into the heap to get it.

 

Without asking the many questions that _he really should’ve_ , Patrick had done so.

 

It was cold.

 

Really cold.

 

It froze him in a desperate, horrific way that made his heart thunder and ache against his ribs.

 

He was only in up to his waist, when he'd felt hands grab his legs and push him further into the snow, until he was fully trapped. He'd yelled and cried, but the words iced in his throat, and the tears of betrayal and frustration at his own idiocy froze on his cheeks. He started feeling more and more snow falling over the heap, he could hear laughter, the metal scrape of shovels against concrete, and crunching footsteps, as the snow crushed him.

 

He was _so cold_. Everything trembled and shook, and his teeth felt as though they would fracture from the way they chattered desperately.

 

He felt something icy invading his nostrils, and he almost felt like he was floating.

 

Huh.

 

Maybe he was dying.

 

Kevin and Megan were gonna get grounded forever.

 

And then- a hand.

 

A hand- firm and strong, wrapped around his arm, pulling him up above the surface- letting oxygen reach his nostrils, and flood into his lungs.

 

Patrick heard dying ghosts of arguments in his ears; Mom screaming, dad yelling, Megan crying, Kevin panicking- but, no, he _wasn't_ -

 

He was in water. Not snow.

 

He wasn't four years old- he was eighteen, he-

 

Patrick felt his cheek scrape against something rough, interrupted by smooth, jutting lumps.

His upper half relaxed in some kind of relief only his survival instinct understood, but everything below his knees was still numb, and freezing. He felt himself be pushed onto his back, and then he felt pressure on the split of his chest.

 

It felt...weird.

 

Something pressing down again and again, then the familiar feeling of familiar fingers on his cheeks. He could hear muffled breathing, panting, and hisses, and he felt safer, despite the noises sounding angry, desperate and frantic.

 

Patrick's eyes rolled open into tiny slits, and he saw something shiny, and pure black for only a second, before-

 

Everything became crystal clear in his mind- but it was only there for a split second before everything went white behind his eyelids, and loud, overwhelming buzzing- like that of gnats, filled his ears.

 

He heard familiar grunts, and his ears twitched at the sudden sound of water being disturbed. His brain didn’t feel like it was in his body. It felt as though it was blank, and as though it were floating to rise through clouds.

 

Everything was quiet now.

 

Patrick could feel everything slowing down inside him; Heartbeat getting lax, muscles drooping, breathing getting long and shallow.

 

It felt like years were passing in the blink of an eye.

 

And then he heard calls of his name.

 

They were desperate yells, but distant- so distant, they felt as though they were coming from China.

 

Everything went dark again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete panted, any tears that flooded from his eyes mingling, and getting lost, in seawater. He'd found Patrick; Almost lying on the seabed, and simultaneously, freezing _and_ drowning to death.

 

He’d seen the boat first.

 

It had been placidly sat on the rocky waves, getting lost and further away as it floated aimlessly- without anybody commandeering it.

Pete's sudden change back to siren had shifted his vocal chords, and he couldn't speak yet- well, not without immense, burning pain.

  
So, instead of yelling out and ripping his vocal chords in two, he'd made the effort to pull himself up to lean over the boat's edge, eyes wide and searching.

 

Patrick hadn't been there- indeed, there was no sign he'd ever existed.

 

It had been eerie too, black net strewn across the floor, empty buckets, and despite a buzzing bulb casting orangey light over the benches, it just felt _dark_ and _cold-looking_.

 

And then Pete had felt it- call it ' _mate's intuition_ ', but Pete had _felt_ where Patrick was.

 

And he'd been right.

 

And fuck, _had it hurt_.

 

It'd hurt to see Patrick's usually pink-dusted cheeks, a deathly grey-blue pale. It'd hurt to not be able to hear his heartbeat over the crashing waves. It'd hurt not to be able to feel his pulse with shaky, uncoordinated fingers.

 

Pete had been so scared.

 

Thankfully, several traits evolution had developed perfectly over the years, meant he could swim _quickly_ , and even with dragging an un-streamlined human beside him, he'd managed to get Patrick back to the shore before death claimed him completely.

 

He'd tried to wake Patrick up- he really had, but he'd already stranded himself again; In trying to drag Patrick out of the water, he'd almost gotten himself stuck- and had, _reluctantly_ , had to retreat back to the waves, as his gills had started panicking and warning him after ten minutes ashore, all while he’d been trying to wake the human up.

 

Pete had watched Patrick helplessly from the water, feeling frustrated tears prickle at his eyes, as one, translucent hand gripped his own hair, breathing sharp and trembling.

 

With one last animalistic grunt, Pete had ducked under the water- wracking his mind for a strategy, but- _fuck_ , _goddamnit_ -

 

He had no time to lose- Patrick was _dying_ \- he knew that, and he couldn’t deny that, or pretend it didn’t exist.

 

Pete hadn't really understood just how fragile humans were until now.

 

He needed to find help- he couldn't _do anything_ like _this_ , and it'd take another whole month for him to look human again- Patrick would be fucking decomposing and his corpse would be getting eaten by beach chickens at that point.

 

Then, Pete furrowed his brow, head turning to stare over his shoulder as his ears bristled at familiar, clear sounds- Oh for _fuck's sake_.

 

Mermaids.

 

Mermaids could go suck a dick.

 

He could hear them, despite knowing they were probably miles away- it was an instinctual thing, a genetic memory instilled in his mind for protection, passed down from generation to generation.

It always made him grimace and shudder- first person memories, of what he knew were really ancestors, and not himself- getting mauled and torn apart by mermaids. The images flashed through his mind as warnings, and they made involuntary adrenaline kick into his system.

 

Pete had to get away; Shit, if they _found him_ , completely open and defenseless in the shallows- and not to mention, with a pretty _dead-looking_ human a few meters away- oh fuck, he was gonna get fucking decapitated.

 

With a heavy, pained heart, he left Patrick.  
Pete swiftly turned to move away from the yells and screeches that were getting closer.

 

Mermaids were more human than sirens were- whereas the latter were more, _biologically_ , like fish.

 

And fuck, they _really_ looked like humans too- and really beautiful humans at that.

 

And their tails- unlike sirens' that changed colour to camouflage them in different shades of water- were block coloured, and usually something pretty and bright, like green, blue, pink or yellow- some beautiful colours that made siren children desperately envious, and longing.

 

Mermaids looked like something out of storybooks and fairytales, so it was pretty hard to be afraid of them.

 

Well. That _was_ until they got angry- it was pretty easy to be afraid of them then.

 

When they got angry, _oh boy_.

 

Their faces turned horrific- pure nightmare fuel; Fangs that hung like saber-tooth tigers’, eyes flooded pure white, and they _just_ , released these... _waves_ , or- or this _vibe_...Well, whatever it was, it caused a pure feeling of panic, claustrophobia and terror, and Pete _hated it_.

 

Pete didn't want to deal with that right now, understandably.

 

...But he didn't have much choice in the matter when out of nowhere, two long, sharp canines dug into his forearm, piercing through fully, and tinting the water around it royal blue.

 

He screeched in pain, un-impaling his arm, and pulling it to his chest protectively in one fluid move.

Pete could only hiss at the mermaid that stared him down; Light blonde hair floating around her head like a halo, pale, flawless skin, admiral blue eyes that matched her tail, and cheekbones you could cut yourself on.

 

She must have been really pretty when she wasn't mad- but any beauty that might have been there was marred by bloody teeth and white eyes.

The mermaid screeched something at him- something he knew were words, but that he couldn't understand, 'cause he didn't _fucking_ _speak mermaid_.

 

And that little inconvenience also left him with no way to explain that- ' _No, I didn't kill that human- he's my mate actually, and no, he's not dead, but he will be if you don't let me go- so stop being such a colossal bitch unless you want to be responsible for a human’s death._ '

 

Pete's eyes shifted from the mermaid- who looked ready to lunge again, and they moved behind her pale shoulder instead, locking onto a few shiny flashes of dim color far away.

 

Shit.

 

More of them.

 

There were about- fuck- _sixteen?_ Or-

 

Fuck it was more- it was a lot more.

 

Pete had hardly survived _twelve_ mermaids last time- And he hadn't even been doing anything wrong that time, he'd just wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

 

But this time- This time, they were convinced he'd killed a human. They thought he’d broken their no.1 rule. They thought he was feral- more feral than they _usually_ considered sirens to be. They thought he'd finally relapsed back into basic, historical instinct.

 

 

If only they knew.

 

 

Pete was a fucking _pioneer_ \- there had only ever been two recorded cases of sirens and humans mating; One hadn’t ended too... _nicely_ (It was a pretty dark tale about a siren being sold to a freak show by their human mate)...but, the other one was... _okay_...he supposed.

 

Well, if you called ‘ _The siren got murdered by the human’s father, who thought she was a demon, after she’d accidentally fallen into saltwater and had turned freaky again_ ’- nice. And she'd been pregnant too. That would have been the first hybrid, _ever_ \- but shit happens, he supposed.

 

Okay, so, maybe not a _great_ track record for human/siren relationships- but shit, Pete was committed now, and he was gonna see it through 'til the very end.

 

Besides, Patrick would never sell him to a freak show for billions of dollars.

 

He hoped.

 

If he could _just explain_ , if they could just chill the fuck out for a sec, and give him the goddamn chance to clear stuff up-

 

But mermaids were notoriously stubborn, and by the look on the blonde mermaid's face- they _weren't interested_ in hearing him out.

 

Fuck it.

 

He was just gonna have to go for it.

 

Just as he moved to dart away as quickly as he could, mentally steeling himself for a chase- the mermaid lunged at him again- teeth digging into his neck and shoulder.

 

Pete cried out with a bat-like screech, as he felt deep, bloody gouges being torn into his flesh as the mermaid dragged her teeth down. With a sharp grunt, his eyes shot to the side, and he noticed _just how close_ the mermaid's ear was to his mouth.

 

Wow.

 

Mermaids really underestimated a species that had fifteen rows of shark teeth.

 

With a snarl, Pete locked his teeth over the ear, and before the mermaid even had time to react, fight back or pull back- Pete pulled away, head shoving back with a twist, as the mermaid’s ear teared off between his teeth with a sickening rip.

 

She screeched loudly in pain- slowly turning more human-looking again as fear and pain replaced rage. A shaky pale hand pressed to her ear, as fangs fell away to the murky depths- along with her ear, that Pete had spit out, and that was leaving a trail of clear, sticky blood behind.

 

Before her _buddies_ decided to come and avenge her ear- Pete sped away, ears prickling and shoulders flinching at the sounds of screeches and yells behind him.

 

Okay, okay.

 

Who could help Patrick?

 

That lighthouse guy?

 

No, that motherfucker lived on a cliff- Pete couldn't crawl up there before becoming fish fingers.

 

That nice couple that had brought Patrick scarves and sweaters, and stuff?

 

No, they lived in town, it was totally landlocked-

 

Brendon.

 

Brend- _thank_ _the lord_.

 

Brendon lived near the coast- but _even better_ , he was leaving from Skagaströnd port today- but okay, shit, _maybe that_ _wasn't too great_.

 

No.

 

No, it was fine.

 

Pete just had to get there before Brendon left- it was gonna be okay.

 

Sure, he didn't know exactly _when_ Brendon left- okay-

 

No negativity. Only positivity. Pete was an optimist, okay?

 

He was _a fucking optimist_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brendon stared up at the long, diamond-plated steel gangway, that lead up to the huge, black and red ship that was going to steal him away to Norway for four months.

 

He didn't mind too much- and hey, on the bright side, he was going to a new rig this time.

 

Gullfaks oil field- a totally new place for him to make a new reputation at. Oh, things must have been so peaceful there for the past few years- but not for long. Not until Brendon Boyd Urie arrived with huge, secret supplies of whiskey, weed and oreos.

 

Making friends was pretty easy when you had those three things.

 

Brendon bounced up on his toes, looking down at the waves under the metal pier as he waited for the boarding go-ahead.

 

The waves were dark, and they actually looked more like _coke_ than _water_ \- oh hey, it was even complete with the fizzing and white stuff- awesome!

 

Brendon's gaze flicked up to the sky, quickly followed by his chin tilting up, and he gazed up at the dark, starry sky with a yawn.

It was really early, _5am_ to be precise- but Brendon had never had too much of an issue with early mornings, so it didn't bother him much.

The guys however- _holy shit_ . His coworkers were literally walking zombies at this point, and the only thing that could have totally shaken them awake was if some huge, _fuck-off_ dragon descended from the clouds, and started burning everything to the ground. He laughed and marvelled at the image of a huge, cool dragon in his head, oh _dude_ , _awesome_ -

 

Brendon felt a hand wrap around his ankle.

 

Okay.

 

Don't freak out.

 

Brendon felt frozen, but he managed to crook his head to look down, to see-

 

What the-

 

What the fuck was that?

 

Damn nature, you scary.

 

Oh god- was he hallucinating? Was this because of weed? Was this because of that shady, stale cereal he’d found at the back of the cupboard, and had, _against his better judgement_ , eaten this morning?

 

It looked...human...kinda.

 

But- But it's eyes were black- just totally fuckin' _black_ \- no iris, or pupil, or-

 

Shit, it didn't have a fuckin' nose either- just a weird, vaguely-nose shaped bump where an actual nose should’ve been.

 

Oh fuck- Brendon could see it's fucking _skull_ , under its _skin_.

 

What- What was this? What was happening to him? Was he dying? Was he going insane?

 

"Patrick."

 

The voice was rapsed and whispered- almost as though speaking was a huge, arduous task.

 

Wait.

 

Wait- that voice...that voice was-

 

Oh fuck, was that-?

 

Was that... _Pete_...?

 

No, no, no- Pete was Patrick's cousin from Chicago- he wasn't some freaky translucent dude who went swimming around in a sub-zero nordic ocean at 5am.

 

But Brendon's mind didn't believe that reasoning, for some reason.

 

His body crouched down of its own accord- despite his own voice screaming at him to kick this thing away and sprint _the fuck_ back home.

 

But, it was just- it was _familiar_ for some reason- that voice, the look in his terrifying eyes-

 

"Patrick."

 

The voice was a sob this time, desperate as another hand moved to grab Brendon's lapel. Brendon felt the urge to jerk away and scream wash over him like a weak, tepid wave, but instead, he only gaped a little.

This guy wasn’t mistaking him for a ‘Patrick’- he was asking for help.

 

 

"Pete? Is that _you?_ "

 

 

The guy- or, _Pete_ , he supposed, _fuck this was insane_ \- shuddered with a sigh, eyes closing gently in relief. The hand that had been looped around an ankle shot up to Brendon's shoulder, and the brunette noticed two, deep holes in Pete's arm, dripping with blue blood.

 

Holy shit.

 

Shit, now that he actually paid attention- Pete was fucking covered with bruises, and bites, and shit.

_Poor guy_ \- what the fuck was-?

 

"Patrick's-"

 

Pete's voice was desperate, but strained, and Brendon's mind cleared at the look in Pete's eyes- finally putting two and two together.

 

"Patrick's in trouble?"

 

Pete nodded gratefully with a sob- Jesus, _thank god_ Brendon had better guessing skills than Patrick did.

 

Brendon's eyes widened, and he glanced behind his shoulder, making sure nobody saw Pete, before he shifted to look at him seriously.

 

"Where is he?"

 

Pete made small, animal-like grunting noises- almost like he couldn't speak. Brendon scanned the other man's face with searching eyes, before-

 

"Home? Is he at home? Hindisvik?"

 

Pete nodded and sobbed again, in pure relief, and joyous _disbelief_ . Brendon nodded quickly, grabbing Pete's wrist and squeezing it comfortingly. Sure, he looked real freaky for some reason, but him and Pete were pals- and the guy looked so fucking distraught it made Brendon's heart hurt. Also, _fuck_ \- if Patrick was in trouble, well- his boss could go _fuck himself_ \- Brendon was getting to that fucking farm, _stat_. "Okay, Pete- listen to me."

 

Pete's eyes widened and he nodded subtly.

 

"Go back home, wait for me there- I'll get there as fast as I can- just- just try to..." Brendon chewed his lip, something inside him knew Pete couldn't help that much.

 

"Keep an eye on him."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"PATRICK?!"

 

Brendon yelled as he stepped across green grass, hovering at the wooden gate that arched up to read ‘Hindisvik’ for a moment. But...no, something told him Patrick wasn't in there- if he was, why would Pete have been swimming around in the sea? It made no sense-

 

The beach- that was it.

 

The beach.

 

Without another yell, as he knew it would be pointless if Patrick was _fucking dying_ \- he bolted across the muddy marsh, feeling splatters of wet dirt coat his shoes and calves- but _fuck_ \- he didn't care right now, he'd clean Patrick's floor up _later_ if he got it filthy _now_.

 

Brendon got to the top of the rocky steps, breath hitching when he spotted a crumpled body on the shore, legs still submerged in water as the top half lay motionless.

As his mind only chanted a chain of, ' _Patrick, help, fuck, dead, Patrick_ ', Brendon sped down the steps, heart stopping every time he slipped or stumbled.

He made it down to the sand safely, speeding across the slither of pebbled shore that the tide had surrendered.

 

"Patrick?" Brendon crashed to his knees with no grace, crumbling down into a hunched, panting and shuddering arch, begs of a futile name spilling from his mouth in steady, increasingly frantic tones.

 

"Patrick? C'mon buddy, wake up- wake up- c'mon-" Brendon hitched Patrick up to his chest, giving a sharp, horrified groan as he saw a pale, blue tinged face, paired with nostrils that hardly moved. Strawberry-blonde strands and eyelashes were iced over in hard clunky lumps, and the kid just looked so... _dead_.

 

He had to get Patrick inside- right now.

 

Brendon stood, pulling Patrick to slump against his shoulder as he hooked an arm around the younger man's shoulder blades.

 

Fuck, _he was so cold_.

 

Brendon grimaced at the lack of temperature, before he stumbled forwards as quickly as he could, without dropping Patrick.

 

He was panicking, shit- he had to get-

 

Brendon looked back at the ocean.

 

Huh.

 

He turned, almost automatically started edging towards the water.

 

Something...something _felt_ -

 

Patrick spluttered a cough, whole frame shaking with the subsequent pained whines that followed. "Patrick?! Patrick, can you hear me?"

 

No response, only a drooped head.

 

Brendon ignored his sudden pull to the sea, and turned with a determined, furrowed brow- marching to the rocky stairs, and soldiering up them as he pulled along Patrick with him.

 

This kid was gonna live- wasn't gonna die, not on _his_ watch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick spluttered a gasping cough, before dissolving into deep, steady breathing as he hit the practically boiling water.

His eyes shot open and he gave stuttered, repetitive gasps, voice only a silent whine as his abused, frozen throat and vocal chords refused to make a sound.

 

His gaze latched onto Brendon; The man was hunched over the bathtub, eyes wide and flooded with relief. He smiled through teary eyes, "Can you hear me Patrick?"

 

How- He'd been on the boat- He-

 

Pete.

 

Where was Pete?

 

Patrick bristled gratefully as the heat vanquished and replaced the chill in his bones. He tilted his head down, watching his expanses pale skin turn red under the water. He'd been left in boxers and socks. Skin needed to be exposed for quicker heat transition- Brendon was smart.

 

Patrick had so many questions.

 

Brendon wasn't supposed to be here, for one, he was leaving to Gullfaks today- not- shit, they'd all said goodbye and everything, Patrick had given him the good coffee- but he wasn’t on the ship- fuck, Brendon was gonna get fired-

 

The older man smiled with an assuring wide-eyed nod, and a look that screamed ' _Just don't freak out_ ', as he stood and left the bathroom.

 

Patrick let his light, icy head clunk back against the bath rim, and his eyes shut with a shaky, silent sigh.

 

So many things he wanted to say, but the only word that escaped him was small and pitiful- and only spoken once, to nothing but thin air.

 

"Pete."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Careful- be careful-"

 

Patrick felt stiff and frozen, as his teeth still chattered violently and periodically. He was curled up in bed, shivering with a whining and barking puppy cuddling towards him, as Brendon pulled the covers up over the redhead.

 

The older man disappeared for a few moments, and Patrick's ears twitched weakly at some clattering and panicked murmuring downstairs.

 

Patrick felt tranquil, in some weird way. The kind of tranquility- _what he assumed_ , only almost dying could give.

 

His powdery eyes locked on the ocean outside.

 

It had almost killed him, he was pretty sure about that- but his memories were mingled with some, weird regression to the time Kevin and Megan had almost smothered him to death in a heap of snow.

He'd heard his mom screaming, he'd heard his dad yelling at his older siblings- but he knew it hadn't been real. How could it have been? It was probably just a ' _life-flashing-before-your-eyes_ ' kinda thing, or maybe it was his brain's way of dealing with the sudden shock of cold, and the sudden threat of death.

 

That was it.

 

His mind had related the only similar thing he'd ever felt- just because it couldn't process what was _actually_ going on.

 

Brendon returned, but Patrick's gaze stayed on the waves. Dark. Murky. Scary. He didn’t want to go fishing again.

 

His eyes finally flicked away and down, when he felt Brendon push something to him under the covers; A plastic bottle of water- an impromptu water bottle, he guessed.

It was really, blissfully warm, and spread the needed heat through his system, providing him with much appreciated warmth.

 

Brendon's hand was on his shoulder, squeezing and comforting- although, Patrick felt as though Brendon was actually calming _himself_ down.

 

The blonde shivered violently, teeth clattering as a harsh aftershock of the cold rushed through him. He pressed the bottle to his chest, along with Pancakes- who had only insisted on squirming closer, and he heard faint, distant calls of his name.

 

Suddenly, everything buzzed into clarity for a moment, and he heard Brendon's voice, clear as day. "Patrick? Are you okay?"

 

Patrick could only give a stilted nod, shuddering as he cocooned himself deeper. He heard a distant mumble that sounded like ' _Get some sleep, Patrick_ ', and Patrick only nodded again, slowly drifting asleep as sudden footsteps got fainter, as a click bounced off of the walls, and as the room finally became dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The light shut off.

 

Pete watched the triangular, crystal-clear window with wide eyes, head poking out from behind a rock.

Patrick was in bed. He’d seen Brendon carry him there- and fuck, he didn’t know how he’d ever be able to repay him.

 

...In other news though, it turns out mermaids get really mad when you bite their ears off- and they also get a lot more determined to kill you too; And as a result of that burning determination, there was a huge gossip of mermaids out searching for Pete- armed with death warrants.

 

Peachy.

 

Just peachy.

 

Pete had been hidden behind this rock for ages, trying to keep his arm above sea level to make sure the blood didn't attract them; Mermaids could smell blood, just like sharks could- and just like sirens could.

Their noses were more designed for smelling human blood though, in case they ever had to find and help an injured one. But, fuck- they could still smell siren blood whole _kilometers_ away- so he was still in deep shit.

 

There were also a lot more of _them_ , than there were of _him_. And the friendliest creatures that could help him, or that were friendly to sirens, were either kelpies, or _other sirens_ ; Kelpies were fucking cowards- and not to mention, super soft and weak- they were literally seal people. Seal. People. Blubbery and cute _sure_ \- but not great fighters. And as for his own species, the closest pack of sirens was in Kattegat.

 

Or ' _Denmark_ ', as the humans insisted.

 

Pete _had checked_. _On a map_.

 

Sure he could... _swim away_...he supposed.

 

...Okay, no, he really couldn't.

 

He got unbelievably anxious when Patrick even went to _the market_ without him- Pete would go insane if they were entire oceans apart.

 

No. No. He'd just have to stay here. He'd just have to hide. From the mermaids. Who were evolutionarily perfected to hunt down sirens and protect humans in the process.

 

He was fucked.

 

Oh well, at least Patrick wouldn't die of depression if Pete kicked the bucket. That was a plus.

 

Pete leaned his cheek on the sharp rock, soft, despairing and involuntary animal-like whines escaping him as he stared up at the house helplessly.

 

He felt something _sleep-like_ taking him over- not like, _actual sleep_ , 'cause Pete couldn't really sleep without having Patrick pressed against him as much as was humanly possible.

 

The siren relaxed, lips parting to breathe steadily as his body relaxed against the sharp rock.

 

Pete's arm fell into the water, trailing blue, _pungent-to-mermaids_ , blood everywhere.

 

He didn't notice.

 

A screech rang out, muffled by water- but clear to _Pete_ , and it shook him awake instantly, making him shoot up violently and furiously curse as he noticed his arm had spread blood everywhere.

 

Sure, mermaid noses were evolved to smell siren blood...but siren _ears_ were evolved to hear mermaid screeches, so the fucking ' _Circle of Life_ ' balanced out perfectly.

 

With one last groaning sigh, Pete steeled himself and sank back into the water, freezing in horror momentarily when he saw faint flashes of shiny colour glinting through distant waves.

 

 

It was gonna be a long night.

 

 

 


	13. My Heart Sinks As I Jump Up, Your Hand Grips Hand As My Eyes Shut

 

Brendon winced at a loud string of violent, painful coughs that rang from the second floor. He tugged on his jacket, and zipped up the join. He knew calling out to Patrick, and asking if he was okay would be pointless- the kid had hardly spoken since the day Brendon had found him on the beach; Sure, he'd hear him whimper a word every now and then- but it was rare, and he always seemed to _just_ miss them.

 

Brendon was worried; Patrick had hardly left the bed, and whenever he did venture out- he'd shiver violently, and his teeth would clatter in a way that made everything inside Brendon churn.

 

Two days ago, he'd reluctantly left Patrick to go to town- on a mission to find a doctor.

 

Dr. Josepsson was one of three doctors in Reykir, and the one that was usually free- and there _was_ a reason for that.

 

Josepsson was a little... _eccentric_ , or perhaps, _over-excited_ would be a better term. All Brendon knew was that he was probably the only man in the world who could amputate a leg with a happy, pure grin on his face.

 

So while Brendon had been a little reluctant to hire him, he had to admit that the guy knew his stuff, and he was a lot smarter than people gave him credit for. And besides, Patrick _really_ needed professional help.

 

Yesterday, Dr. Josepsson had examined, poked and prodded- all with an unnerving, bright smile, and he'd come to the conclusion that Patrick had hypothermia.

 

...And it also turns out Brendon could have accidentally killed Patrick.

 

 

_Oops?_

 

It turns out that putting someone who has hypothermia in hot water can...maybe...probably...okay, fine- _usually_ , stop their... _heart_.

 

_BUT in his_ **_defense_** , Brendon had assumed that heat = good, and shit- he'd only gotten a _D_ in biology, so he totally wasn't to blame- his shitty teacher, _Mrs. Grant_ , was.

 

Well anyway, Patrick had recovered well enough- despite there being like, a 70% he'd die after falling asleep on the first night, and he'd been cleared of hypothermia.

He'd only been left with a pretty severe cold, and Brendon- now opting to listen to Dr. Josepsson, rather than trust his own knowledge, was helping him out.

 

 

Brendon tied a scarf around his neck as he stepped out of the door, stretching his shoulder blades a little, and looking over to the sea.

 

The sea was calm, today, but...Brendon couldn't stop thinking about- about that thing- no, about _Pete_.

 

Pete hadn't been in the house that night, he hadn't been in town either, and no, he hadn't just been _hanging out_ in a _cove_ , or something- he was gone. Completely, and utterly- _gone_.

 

It made no sense, he knew it was ridiculous, he knew Patrick would probably call him every synonym for ' _stupid_ ' under the sun, but-

 

With one last glance at the waves, Brendon killed his thoughts and turned, starting over the rocky hill- absently petting a grey horse that was chewing a gate post, on the way.

 

Deep down, Brendon knew.

 

The freaky guy that had grabbed his ankle?- That’d been Pete.

 

Brendon also knew that Pete was in the sea.

 

He was gonna find him- he was gonna find him, and he was gonna find out what the actual fuck was going on.

 

So many questions, so many lies- this was such a delicate situation; Were Patrick and Pete even cousins? Was Patrick secretly a freaky transparent dude too?

 

But, before he got way too ahead of himself, Brendon decided to hold his horses.

 

He had to think _rationally_.

 

If he wanted to find Pete, he needed a boat; Patrick's boat had been lost to the waves, and Brendon had decided to initiate a rescue mission for said boat- but he couldn't very well make a raft out of plastic bottles and just paddle around 'til he found it.

 

So, Brendon needed to hire one. Or borrow one.

 

And the only asshole that had a boat around here was-

 

 

 

"Útlendingur."

 

 

 

Brendon stifled a heavy sigh, and blinked blank, deadpan eyes, plastering a strained smile onto his features. "Holm."

 

The older man glanced at Brendon curiously, as he spoke through a fake smile- and really failed in hiding the sparks of contempt that flashed through his eyes.

 

"Hvað vantar þig?"

 

The brunette stifled a deep exhale, and tilted his head, eyes automatically drifting over to the cliff. "Ég þarf aðstoð."

 

Holm raised his eyebrows coolly, just about hiding a smug smirk that crossed his face, "Greiða-?"

 

Brendon had no interest in dragging this out; He needed a boat. That was it. And Holm was _not_ the most pleasant guy to be around.

 

Not quite stopping his eyes from rolling slightly, Brendon straightened his spine, bounced up on his toes and clasped his hands into white-knuckled fists behind his back.

 

"Já, greiða. Þarftu bátinn þinn."

 

Holm huffed an incredulous, amused laugh, left eyebrow raising more than Brendon thought was humanly possible.

 

"Bátinn minn? Af hverju þarftu það?"

 

Wow, this guy _really_ felt sociable today. Shit, he knew just how to press Brendon's buttons; The smirk, the brow, that smug _punchable_ face-

 

Brendon was one more smirk away from punching Holm in the jaw, and stealing his fucking boat.

 

But he just about calmed himself down to speak another deadpan string of words.

 

"Ég borga þér 1000 krona."

 

Holm blinked, smugness melting away as his eyes shone with consideration. A few moments of quiet contemplation, and the man nodded.

 

"Fínn, taktu það bara aftur með sólsetur."

 

Brendon nodded, fishing around in his coat pocket, before rooting out an orangey-purple note, branded with a wooden church, a few nordic symbols, and the number '1000'.

 

_Joke's on you dipshit, that's just ten dollars to me._

 

With a blank expression, Brendon handed the note over, and Holm took it with the ghost of a smirk, and a nod. "Sólsetur."

 

Brendon tried not to roll his eyes.

 

He failed.

 

"Sólsetur."

 

 

 

As he marched away, heading down another rocky staircase, Brendon could feel the judging gaze burning into him. The brunette raised his chin, eyes finding a white, metal boat sat at the end of a small, wooden pier; Thank god for tiny, coastal towns, boat renting was ridiculously easy.

 

Brendon moved down to the end of the pier, and he clasped his hands around the metal edge, before hooking a leg over, and carefully stepping into the boat.

 

With a tiny, niggling feeling of anxiety flooding his stomach, Brendon moved over to the helm, and spun the wheel once idly, before settling his hands. _Ten and two- we're good to go._

 

As the boat started moving, Brendon furrowed his brow over at the waves, and finally felt the now- _very noticeable_ , writhing in the pit of his stomach.

 

Behind the confident, assuring front- he was scared. He'd almost, _unknowingly_ , _killed_ Patrick, he might’ve lost his job, and now, he was going out looking for... _Pete_...in whichever freaky incarnation he was in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brendon Urie, who's Brendon Urie? He only knew Sherlock Holmes- the best, okay- _fictional_ , detective ever.

 

Okay, maybe Brendon was exaggerating, but, in his _vehement_ defense, he'd found Patrick's boat- five days, _almost a whole week_ , after it had gotten lost in the ocean.

 

The. Ocean.

 

A very large expanse of sea, in particular each of the main areas into which the sea is divided geographically.

 

Brendon was a genius.

 

The lost and found, wooden boat was tethered to the rented, metal one with a thick, flax rope, and one of the points on Brendon’s to do list was ready to be crossed off.

 

 

Now he just had to find Pete.

 

 

He'd tried calling, he'd tried yelling, he'd even tried morse code into the water with a flashlight- but the man eluded him.

 

So, Brendon had decided to wait.

 

Pete was smart, and boats were pretty easy to see- so, he hoped the guy could put two and two together, and make his way over when he was ready.

 

 

 

Brendon was lying on a metal bench, staring up at the sky nonchalantly. Sure, he felt _really bad_ about leaving Patrick for so long, but c'mon the kid was asleep- had been for five days, would be today, and probably would be tomorrow.

 

He gazed upwards, and examined the sky; The sky was calmer than it had been in days- Duck-egg blue and strewn with snowy clouds. Brendon could feel the dried salt on his face that always gathered when you were near the sea, and his ears pricked up at the cries of seagulls as his eyelids fell closed.

 

All he could hear was his own lax breathing, the birds, the sea, and clanging.

 

Wait.

 

One of these things is not like the other.

 

Clanging- Why was there-?

 

Brendon shot up from the bench, brow furrowing of its own accord as he looked around skittishly. Clanging- clanging against metal, where was it coming from?

 

A hand- showing off all its bones beneath translucent skin, clasped around the left side of the boat with a loud thud.

 

Brendon jumped, before his eyes widened and his mouth fell open in shock.

 

The hand tried to keep its grip, before it slipped down again, making a crash into water echo in Brendon's ears.

 

That spurred the brunette forwards, and he practically bolted over to the left side of the boat, hands grabbing the edge as he leaned over, eyes wide and searching.

 

 

"Pete?! Pete, a-are you there?!"

 

 

The hand burst up again, struggling to grab the edge, and Brendon grabbed it, pulling upwards. Another hand shot up, and Brendon didn't have time to look at it at all, before he was faced with the same face from five nights ago.

 

Black eyes, translucent skin, grey-paled, and, oh _kick-ass_ \- Shark teeth!

 

It was so much _freakier_ \- but so much _cooler_ , in daylight.

 

But, fuck- Pete looked tired, and sick- _but mostly_ _tired_.

 

Exhausted was the right word, Pete looked exhausted.

 

Black eyes were circled and underlined with dark eyebags, and his face was covered in blue-leaking scratches, and navy blue bruises.

 

And that's when Brendon noticed the hand.

 

Trembling right hand- with a bloody, fleshy stump where the ring finger should’ve been.

 

Brendon gaped- what the fuck had happened-?

 

 

"Brendon, d'you have a knife?"

 

 

The voice sounded strained and pained- as though it hurt him to speak. Brendon could only nod shakily with wide eyes, rushing over to the benches, and crashing to his knees. He unlatched the grate-covered compartment that was cut into the end of the benches, shaky fingers working to undo loose screws.

He retrieved a cornflower blue toolbox, and two pairs of pale hands moved to root around in the old metal tools.

 

Suddenly, Brendon's head shot up at a grunt that spiked into his ears. He looked up to where it came from, over the left side of the boat-

 

 

Pete was gone.

 

 

Fillet knife in his hand, Brendon rushed over to the edge, looking down and scanning the water with wide eyes.

 

"Yo Pete?! Pete, what-?!"

 

The man resurfaced with a gasp, and he panted arduously, as hands covered with something sticky that looked like clear glue, shot over the edge again. Pete flinched a little at the blade that was wrapped in a pale hand, eyes locking onto it as he exhaled deeply, almost steeling himself, for some reason. "Knife, Brendon. Kni-"

 

Brendon handed it over with no hesitation.

 

Maybe that had been a little dumb, in retrospect.

 

Pete took it with a grimace, and a mouthed ' _Thank you_ '.

Black eyes lidded as he exhaled sharply, and Pete leaned his forehead on the edge for a second. Brendon's eyes widened as he grimaced at long, dark gouges running through Pete's shoulder, into his back, and way down to his hips- that were cut off by the lapping waves of saltwater.

 

"W-What d'you need the- the knife, for...?"

 

"They're scared of knives- fuck, we're _all_ , scared of knives."

 

Well shit, that only made Brendon more anxious than he already was.

 

"W-Who's ‘ _they_ ’-? Wait- _who's_ ' _we_ '?"

 

"Patrick? H-How's Patrick?"

 

Pete looked up- voice breaking, heartbroken, and desperate, and eyes hopeful but tired, as his fingers clenched around the fillet knife's handle as though it were his only lifeline.

 

Brendon nodded eagerly, quickly wanting to clear up the heart-wrenching look in Pete's gaze; He always hated seeing people- especially people he knew and cared about, in distress.

 

And Pete looked pretty fuckin' distressed right now.

 

"He's fine- he's totally fine-"

 

"Ohthank-"

 

Brendon grimaced a little- ADHD made it hard to keep secrets to himself. And the stupid shit that had been plaguing his mind- that had been trying to escape _all day_ , just tumbled free in an instant of regret.

 

"I fucked up _a little bit_."

 

"What...?"

 

Brendon's face scrunched up as he groaned at himself; Shit, Pete was _not_ gonna like this.

 

"I...uh...P-Patrick had like- y'know, _hypothermia_ -"

 

Pete's eyes narrowed, shark teeth baring slightly.

 

"What. Did. You. Do-?"

 

"Hot bath...?...I uh- I-I mean, it uh- could have made his... _heart_... _stop_...?"

 

Eye twitch.

 

A violent one too.

 

Pete exhaled deeply, eyes shutting as he seemingly tried to keep his composure. There was an agonizing silence for a few, long moments- in which Brendon was 99% sure Pete was plotting Brendon's murder.

The raven black eyes opened, and they stared up at the brunette seriously, hand twitching as though he was holding back the urge to punch the human in the goddamn face.

 

" _If you ever do that again_ , _I’ll tear your lungs out_ \- _alright_?"

 

Brendon nodded eagerly, trying a smile soon after, while trying to hide the crippling fear the words, and the tone in which they were said, had caused. "Hey, only doctors orders from here on out." Thankfully, despite his dishevelled, tortured appearance, Pete huffed a laugh, head drooping against the boat's edge as black eyes closed again.

 

Brendon was concerned.

 

"P-Pete?"

 

Pete's eyes flicked upwards, brow raised. Brendon swallowed thickly, averting his gaze for a moment, and biting the inside of his cheek. Chocolate brown eyes flicked to ink blacks, and the human exhaled deeply.

 

"What... _What are_ y-?"

 

Pete's head flicked to the side, eyes wide and afraid- pointed ears swivelling up and twitching at a noise Brendon couldn't hear. He glanced back at Brendon, eyes flooding with something akin to determination, making him look extremely predatory.

 

And scary.

 

As fuck.

 

 

"Take care of him."

 

 

And with that, Pete was gone again.

 

Brendon stood there, leaning over the edge of the boat, eyes wide, brow furrowed and jaw slack in a gape.

 

He had so many questions, but Pete was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick awoke to silence.

His eyes shifted open, and he sniffed roughly, looking around the room with dull, tired eyes. Patrick yawned, and suddenly, his ears rang with pages turning. More pages, the sound of paper, frustrated murmurs- _what_ was-?

 

With a grimace of pain at the slight spark of discomfort in his neck, Patrick sat up, squinting around the room; Nobody was there, it was only him and Pancakes- who was still snoring quietly next to him.

 

Patrick exhaled deeply, brow furrowing with determination. It hurt too much to yell, but he decided to stand, and _at the very least_ , lean over the balcony to find the source of the noises.

 

There was a low, dull ache in his bones- not _absurdly_ painful, but it was just enough to catch him off guard every now and then, and fuck- when it _did_ , it was _torture_.

 

Patrick shifted his legs over to the side of the bed, dropping them ungracefully to the floor with a loud thud, and moving his feet to press against the floor. His toes curled involuntarily at the cold wood that greeted them, and the blonde grimaced slightly.

  
He’d had enough of the cold- he really couldn’t stand it right now.

 

With another steady exhale, Patrick's hands gripped the edge of the mattress, and he pushed himself up to standing position. His knees felt weak, and his legs were shaky as he crashed forwards into the balcony railing, leaning over the edge with quiet pants and wide, heart-stopped eyes.

 

Brendon's head turned to flick upwards at the noise, and his eyes stayed wide as he lay his gaze on Patrick.

 

The blonde tilted his head, squinting in confusion; Brendon was surrounded by books. Piles. Mountains. And Patrick found that odd; Brendon wasn't really one for books, not like Pete was, anyway- that man could read for a whole year, _nonstop_ -

 

Patrick's heart jolted painfully.

 

Pete.

 

Fuck- thinking about him hurt.

 

He'd been disappeared for five days- or, fuck, _it could_ have been more, Patrick had been passed out for so long, he wasn’t sure what day it was anymore- or how much time had passed.

 

"Patrick, are you okay? D'you need anythi-?"

 

"What are you doing?"

 

Patrick's voice was a quiet, low, raspy whisper, and the sick, nasally voice was complete with a red-tinged nose, eye bags, and messy, bed hair that stuck up everywhere.

 

Brendon gulped a little, before his gaze fell back to his book.

 

"I uh…”

 

Silence for a few moments, before a shaky sigh rang from Brendon.

 

“I found Pete."

 

Patrick's eyes widened, and his jaw went slack as waves of relief washed over him-

 

"He uh...I-" Brendon furrowed his brow with a sharp exhale, and he turned to stare at Patrick seriously.

 

"I have questions Patrick. A lot of 'em."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick's mind whirred in thought.

 

He was sat up in bed, back pressed against pillows and cushions, and there was a comforter wrapped around his shoulders. Brendon sat at the foot of the mattress, book in hand, and mouth trailing pressing question after question.

Patrick had let go of his inhibitions, whether it be due to illness or just trusting Brendon with his goddamn life- he answered every question with no argument or elaboration- he'd told the older man _everything_.

 

Brendon was...surprised, to say the least.

 

"So, you're telling me- he's _not_ your cousin?"

 

Brown eyes were wide, and the gaze they cast out was blank and gormless. Patrick smiled softly, feeling remorseful at the slight betrayal and shock that laced the brunette’s words, "No, he's not."

Nope, Pete was a siren. A mythological sea creature that Patrick had been sheltering for close to a year.

 

Oh, and he was Patrick's boyfriend.

 

Yeah that was pretty important too.

 

Brendon blinked, nodding slowly. "Okay. I mean, i-it's _crazy_ , like- like _actually insane_ , but- I-I-" The man sighed, looking up and out of the window, eyes locking on the placid, grey waves. "...I saw it with my own- I kinda knew- I-"

 

"How was he?" Patrick's eyes were desperate, and his breathing was a little uneven with sudden, fearful expectation. Patrick knew there were dangers down there. He knew Pete had refused to go back to sea for a reason. But now he was there- and he was all alone. It haunted Patrick. In his dreams, in his thoughts- _Every horrifying possibility_ haunted Patrick.

 

The older man stayed quiet, averting his gaze from baby-blues, and Patrick felt like he was on the verge of _screaming_.

 

"Brendon please, you- you haven't _told_ me yet."

 

The brunette picked at his jeans, subtly worrying his lip between his teeth. Patrick could tell he was holding something back- and he could tell Brendon was struggling with himself. Maybe...Maybe he'd found something so...horrible, he- he didn't want to worry Patrick.

 

Fuck.

 

Well, goddamnit, if he'd found something _horrible_ , Patrick needed to know _even more_.

 

"Brendon, I can take it- just tell me, I'm begging you-"

 

"He was tired, Patrick."

 

Tired.

 

Patrick's brow furrowed a little, and he felt grief and worry clawing up his throat- making it more red raw than it already was.

 

"H-He...He..." Brendon exhaled deeply and suddenly, puffing out his cheeks before shifting his head to stare at Patrick directly- only sincerity and seriousness burning in chocolate brown eyes. "He asked me for a knife-"

 

"Pete's scared of knives."

 

The mumble was more to himself than to Brendon, but the brunette nodded anyway. "That's what he said."

  
Patrick gave a strained, stuttered exhale, furrowing his brow and shaking his head incredulously, mouth hanging open.

 

"W-Why did he need _a knife_?"

 

Brendon shrugged, shaking his head, "He said ' _they_ ' were scared of 'em."

 

'They'? Who was 'they'?

 

"He was hurt, Patrick. He was hurt real bad."

 

Patrick's heart dropped, and his system froze over with an agonizing chill of pure fear.

 

His mouth moved to make sounds, he _needed_ to ask Brendon what constituted ' _real bad_ '- but no words escaped his chords. Thankfully, the older man continued unbidden, but his words only made Patrick's stomach writhe with pure anxiety and terror.

 

"One of his fingers- right hand, I think- it was...uh-" Brendon glanced up at Patrick, and he instantly knew the redhead understood- the horrified, glassy look in his wide eyes was confirmation enough. Patrick's eyes cast down in a stutter, and his lip trembled subtly.

 

There was silence for a few moments.

 

"Brendon?"

 

The brunette flicked his head up towards Patrick, tilting it a little in silent questioning.

Patrick's eyes were a little watery, and he was really struggling to keep tears behind the threshold of powdery blues.

 

"Where is he?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete didn't like knives.

 

He never had, even since he was just a little kid, and he always tended to assume it was an instinctual thing- something to protect him from knife-wielding humans with the intent to cut pieces of him away.

 

However, right now, as he was hid and wedged into a tiny gap in a submerged, rocky boulder- the knife in his hand was his best friend.

 

The fillet blade- that was perfectly designed for slashing fish gills, was his only lifeline.

 

The five days he'd spent in the ocean hadn't been easy, to say the least. He was beaten, and bruised, he hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten- and just _so fucking tired_.

 

Oh, and not to mention, maimed.

 

Yep, Pete was maimed. For life.

 

Sure, maybe it was _karma_ \- he _had_ ripped a mermaid's ear off after all.

 

After evading the gossip of mermaids for two, _kinda_ successful days (if you counted a few gouges on his ribs ' _successful_ ')- his luck had finally ran out; Pete had lost his right ring finger to a green-tailed mermaid- everything of the digit, from the knuckle up, was gone, and now- there was only a bloody stump left behind, and it wouldn't _stop fucking bleeding_.

 

Actually, none of his cuts would stop bleeding- leaving him to swim around as a constant beacon, that practically screamed- ' _Hey mermaids, what’s up?”_ '

 

Pete was so screwed.

 

But, it wasn't all bad, he supposed. He'd survived close to a week alone, and he hoped it wouldn't have to be much longer; As soon as Patrick was healed- he could go back to land.

 

...He kinda wished he'd climbed into Brendon's boat that morning, but-

 

But, Brendon didn't know what he really was.

 

Sure, Pete looked freaky, and a little scary- but Brendon hadn't seen the tail, and the human probably just thought his mind was playing tricks on him, or something.

 

Pete just... _didn't want to risk it_.

 

He still didn't really... _trust humans_.

 

Yeah yeah, sure- he'd _mated with one_ , and he was totally head-over-fucking-heels for Patrick- but _Patrick was different_ , okay?

 

Besides, it was hard to undo twenty one years of mental conditioning, and not to mention- centuries of genetic memory, that begged him to avoid human beings at all costs.

 

Shit, the images- the old memories  that flashed through his mind, and served as warnings for whenever he got too near a human; Getting his tail hacked off with a blunt hatchet, getting his gills stabbed through with ice picks, getting his eyes gouged out with sticks, getting cooked alive- tied to a spit over a raging fire pit, getting hooked through the roof of his mouth with metal- fuck it was horrible. They weren't his memories, he knew they weren't- those were his ancestors, not him, personally. But, shit, they still haunted him.

 

Oddly enough though...he didn't get them around Patrick.

 

He never had- even when Patrick had first caught him, and the human had been so threatening, Pete was 100% convinced he was gonna die.

 

It had been odd. So many contradicting feelings, thoughts, and actions, all spinning through his head like a hurricane.

 

Patrick had caught him in a net, had tried to attack him with a wrench, had put a bag over his head, and had confined him in some plasticky thing he hated. All of that had been _terrifying_ , and while they should've all been major red flags of danger...Pete’s mind had stayed quiet.

 

No adrenaline, no spark of animalistic rage, no reaction to bite, or attack- and no ancestors' warnings. No tail slicing, no gill destroying, no eye-gouging, no cooking alive, no hooks- _nothing_.

 

He felt safe with Patrick. Even back then, even back when he didn't actually _know_ the human.

 

And then, Patrick started being kind.

 

Patrick didn't kill him, Patrick didn't throw him back in the sea, Patrick didn't out him to the media, or sell him to scientists, or to a freak show or something.

 

No, instead, Patrick brought him food, Patrick talked to him, Patrick gave him a radio, Patrick brought him books, he gave him clothes, he let him sleep in the bed- and fuck, so much more.

 

So many, tiny little gestures that others may not have even noticed- but Pete _did_. It was ingrained in his psyche: notice small details, copy them, and then use them to blend in.

 

And fuck, Pete couldn't be more _grateful_ , and he'd become completely, and hopelessly enamoured with every miniscule thing that _was_ , Patrick Stumph;

 

The way he'd hum tunes Pete didn't recognize in his sleep, just how soft he was in Pete's arms, the way his hair fluffed when he'd wake up in the morning, that look in his eyes when he was happy, the look in his eyes when he was sleepy, the dumb Batman pyjama pants he wore to bed- every _tiny_ thing set Pete's heart aflame, every time, without fail, and fuck, he loved it. He loved Patrick.

So when opportunities had arisen, when Patrick had returned his feelings, when Patrick had taken him to bed- Pete hadn’t even stopped to think-

 

Pete was shaken from his gentle, heavenly thoughts of Patrick- by screeches. Screeches that his ears bled with- day in and day out. He groaned, head leaning against the rocky wall of the dark stone, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as his heart sped up in panic.

 

Shit, no- that wasn't good. He had to calm down, before he released some panicky, fear hormone that made every fish-eater in this fucking ocean pinpoint where he was.

 

Okay, no- it was totally fine. He had a knife- mermaids were scared of knives, he'd be fin-

 

And then a hand shoved into the rock gap, grabbing at rough pieces of stones, and tracing walls with pats as it searched-

 

It was probably looking Pete.

 

It was probably a mermaid.

 

The siren tried not to move, holding his breath as his gills clamped shut. The hand stilled, just a few inches from his tail. Pete glanced at the knife in his hand; He had to do something, it would smell his blood sooner or later- and he'd be _done for_ if the gossip caught him in such a tiny dead-end.

 

With only _one_ fluid and sharp movement, Pete lurched forwards, knife hand clashing down into the back of the pale, searching hand- piercing through fully. He heard screeching, and he struggled to keep his grip on the handle, before dragging the blade back towards himself with huge effort- ripping through the palm, and through the webbing of the fingers.

 

The hand was mostly split in two, and the utter agony made the mermaid fall back for a moment- giving Pete the perfect chance to escape.

 

Free hand grappling the edge of the rock, whilst the other tightly held the knife handle- Pete pushed himself up and forwards, bolting away from the livid creature, only glancing back over his shoulder once he was a safe distance away; Ginger hair, golden tail- _and_ _really fucking mad_.

 

Pete's gills fluttered in frantic stutters as kept moving, finally managing to lose the mermaid through a school of fish. He ducked behind another rock, grimacing at the way the sudden movements of pursuit had made his cuts flare up and bleed heavily.

 

Pete's face scrunched up in anger and he bit into his arm, his throat making animalistic grunts and screams of frustration. The sudden shock of anger passed, and it was quickly replaced by desperate misery, and he pressed the teeth-marked forearm into his eyes, and gave a childlike sob of pure fear.

God, he wanted to go home. He wanted his mom, he wanted his dad- he didn't want to _deal_ with this bullshit anymore.

 

Another piercing screech rang through his ears, and Pete resolved to calm himself.

 

He had to grow up, he didn't have a choice but to fucking _survive_ right now.

 

His parents were in Jamaica, and that was a hell of a journey, and unless they ever migrated to Vinland- _oh for fuck's sake_ \- ' _Iceland_ '- he'd probably never see them again.

 

Besides, he didn't _need_ them anymore, and they didn't need him either. They probably had _a lot_ of kids to take care of- maybe more than they'd had before he left, since sirens tended to have large litters- so it was absolutely _pointless_ to go home.

 

But y'know who _did_ need him?

 

Patrick.

 

Patrick needed him, and _he_ needed _Patrick_ \- so Pete mentally _screamed_ at himself to just ' _man the fuck up_ ', and keep moving, before the screeches became several, and louder than they already were.

 

With new sparks of determination in his chest, and newfound resolve lighting his eyes, Pete nodded to himself curtly, and exhaled deeply, before narrowing his eyes, and surging forwards.

 

It was gonna be okay- fuck, more screeches- louder- more- fuck- goddamnit- shit-

 

And then, a glorious idea crossed his mind.

 

 

Rivers.

 

 

A river- He needed to find a river.

 

Somewhere where the sea flowed into a river, or a even a _lake_ \- that was it.

 

He could hide in a river, and- and somehow- _somehow_ , Patrick would find him. Pete knew he would.

 

Suddenly, the loudest screech he'd ever heard rang into his ears, clattering through his skull, and on pure instinct, he turned.

 

He saw white eyes.

 

And the last thing he felt was two, sharp, long blunt spikes digging through his neck.

 

 

 


	14. Deep Sea Baby, I'll Follow You

 

Patrick was going fishing.

 

It was his first day alone since Brendon had found him frozen and unconscious on the shore, and to be truthful, both were still perplexed about what'd even happened; How had he gotten back to the coast- and how had Patrick even fallen in _in the first place?_

 

Patrick supposed some questions would always go unanswered.

 

Pushing away layers of blankets with one hand, Patrick lurched out of bed, feet settling on the cold, wooden floor for only a moment, before he started moving again.

Yawning and stretching his back and arms, Patrick moved over to the dresser, and crouched down on frozen heels, quickly opening a drawer with cold, stiff fingers.

 

The strawberry-blonde fished out the usual pseudo-uniform he'd have to wear every day; The layers and padding of shirts, sweaters, jeans, jackets- anything and everything to keep him warm out at sea.

 

A quiet bark drew his eyes away from the tumbleweed of tangled sleeves and buttons in his hands, and he glanced over to the bed, an instant, involuntary smile spreading on his face.

 

Pancakes stared at him from under a comforter, dark eyes wide and sharp ears pricked upwards. Patrick could hear her tail wagging, and in doing so, thumping against the mattress in even beats.

She'd grown so much over time, and Patrick idly reminisced about his second day at the farm- when Brendon had first brought her to him. A gift of a warm, fluffy, and squirming bundle in his arms, carrying promises of companionship, company, and shepherding sheep (despite never actually being used for the latter).

It seemed a lifetime ago, she was so _big_ now, and Patrick doubted she'd fit in his arms the way she had then.

 

Patrick's smile broadened and he laughed quietly as the dog slunk out of bed, dropping down to wood with a quiet yelp, before cantering over towards him, shoving her head under his arm.

The blonde grinned and pet her head, before glancing out at the view outside.

 

He still had a job to do, better get started.

 

...But not without _breakfast_ , he supposed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oatmeal.

 

Oatmeal was still weird.

 

But he'd managed to get through a bowl, and he was eternally grateful to the rich brown sugar and red and blue berries that made it palatable.

 

Horses came first, they always did- seeing as they required the least amount of work.

 

There'd once been thirteen horses, but now, there were _sixteen_ ; Three foals had been born, and he'd thankfully had nothing to do with their conception- he’d just let horses do whatever horses do. Although, he had to admit, baby horses were pretty cute, and it was a really nice pastime to sit at the kitchen window, coffee in hand, and watch them play- or annoy their parents.

 

Over time, Pancakes had really learnt to behave herself around horses. There was no longer any biting, or chasing, or scratching- she simply sat by Patrick's side loyally, completely content as long as she received a pat on the head every now and then.

 

Patrick smiled with a hint of melancholy as he pet a brown horse's nose with the back of his fingers; This was the one that had chased him into the house on his first day, and had successfully freaked him out at the ' _stalker horses_ ' he was going to share a yard with.

Turns out this breed was just particularly friendly, and extremely intelligent- so much so, they showed deep interest in humans and their ways. Nice to know they hadn’t just been planning his assassination.

 

With one glance down at Pancakes, and one curt nod at the horse, Patrick stepped away across sage green grass, heading over to the arched wooden gate.

 

Hindisvik.

 

Patrick's eyes drifted over the name carved into the dark, rich wood, and he smiled, before starting over to the rocky hill, Pancakes following close behind.

 

Hindisvik was his house, his property- real and paid for. It was kinda insane to him, if he was honest.

All his life, all he'd heard was how difficult it was to get a job, to buy a house, to be successful, to have a family, to be happy.

 

And yet, here he was.

 

He had a job, he had a house, he wasn't badly off- farms and fishing were more lucrative in Iceland than he'd first imagined- and it had all been achieved with relative ease.

  
Patrick felt lucky. _Really_ damn lucky.

 

 

As he came to a stop on the highest rise of the hill, Patrick looked out over the flocks of sheep and the herd of cows with a sweeping motion of his head and gaze.

He could just about count them by eye now, but he knew it was always better to go around to each one, lay a physical hand on them, and check their number. He always counted them individually- just to be on the safe side.

 

 

Sheep and cows.

 

Pretty easy, it was just a job of counting...and not mixing up near identical sheep, and while Patrick had struggled with that at first, he'd gotten pretty good at it over time.

 

"Thirty-three, thirty-four," He idly walked past a white, bleating lamb, who was insisting on trying to climb up on her sleeping mother's back- and Patrick counted both.

 

"Thirty-five." Patrick stopped on a brown ram, who was lazily chewing grass. It paid him a disinterested look, before bleating quietly and returning to its task.

 

Noticing the usual lack of footsteps, tail wagging and panting at his side, Patrick smiled softly to himself, and turned to glance over his shoulder- eyes settling on the rocky hill.

 

There she was, all grown up.

 

Patrick felt so proud.

 

Pancakes was sat over the flock like a protective guardian, watching them all with a sense of regality and motherhood. The blonde's smile broadened into an eye-squinted grin, and he huffed a quiet laugh, before patting his thighs. "C'mere Pan!"

 

And the dog was a puppy once more.

 

In an instant- before Patrick had even finished his command actually, she bounded over, tongue lolling out and tail wagging furiously, as joyful barks rang through the air.

 

"Shi-" Patrick dissolved into laughter as Pancakes almost floored him with her enthusiasm, but plenty of practice had taught him to keep his balance.

Patrick crouched down and happily scratched behind her ears with a grin, laughing again as the dog insisted on licking his face. "Agh- Pan, c'mon-" The blonde stood, frame still shaking with laughter as he wiped his cheek as best he could with a jacket sleeve. Patrick smiled down at Pancakes, and then glanced around at the sheep once more, before motioning his head back over the hill.

 

"Let's see if I don't get seasick this time, huh?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, Patrick was going fishing.

 

Yes, he understood how dumb he sounded; Someone who'd almost frozen to death in the sea would usually not go back there so willingly- but Patrick had a job to do, and he had mouths to feed.

 

...Okay so it was mainly his _own_ mouth, and Pan's, but _c'mon_ \- he couldn't just let fear rule him, he couldn't just let anxiety dictate his thoughts and feelings. Patrick had to be strong, he had to take his own life, his own actions, his own choices into his _own_ hands, and stick with them.

 

Pancakes wasn't seasick- she never had been, she never was, and he suspected she never would be. Patrick supposed it must have been in her blood, maybe some old breed memory of boats that was ingrained into her very instinct.

 

Well, whatever that old memory was- it really wasn't ingrained in Patrick's instinct.

 

The blonde was hunched over, thighs settled against his chest, and forehead resting on his knee bones, whilst his forearms kept out any inklings of light that seeped through the gaps and into his eyes.

 

Patrick wondered if he looked like a myspace emo right now, he kinda felt like a myspace emo. Hey- replace the farmer/fisherman get-up with black band merch, skinny jeans and hair straighteners and he was sorted.

 

While dizziness rocked and swirled in his mind, Patrick felt a wet nose nuzzling into the back of his hand, and his eyes crooked open, lifting his head from his arms to squint into daylight.

 

Pancakes was used to this by now, but she always tried to cheer him up regardless. It was kinda sad that Patrick still hadn't grown much more tolerant to the sea, but he assumed he'd have to give it a few more years.

 

"Sorry I'm a wimp, Pan." The dog only barked, and subsequently whined in a kind way, jumping up to the bench with the sole intention to cuddle into Patrick's stomach. Patrick laughed, scratching behind her ear once she was settled, before looking up at the view.

 

Thankfully, he'd already cast the nets and the rod as soon as the boat had turned stationary, so he didn't have to disturb his dog- at least, not until the nets started tugging. Metal latches, strings, tools, all secured and all tight- and all to catch the fish that were around 80% of his livelihood.

 

 

 

Patrick decided to do what almost always calmed him down the most- look.

 

He cast his eyes upwards from Pancakes’ fur ruffling in the slight wind, and he let his gaze rain out over everything that was around him.

 

The day was crystal clear.

The sky was a light, pastel grey- so light in fact, that the sky almost looked as though it had been streaked with pure, white paint.

The clouds however...the clouds marred the purity a little; They were darker grey- although, not a 'scary', or 'stormy' grey (Patrick tended to avoid going fishing on those days), and they sat lazily along the sky in jagged clumps, refusing to bend to the breeze’s will and move instead.

 

The seas were grey too, but the depths of the waves were tinged, and practically glowing with navy blue. The dark, solid colour gave Patrick some peace, for an odd reason. Navy blue- it just seemed, and felt like a strong, safe colour.

 

Pure, ice white foam graced the edges of each, languid wave that rose and fell, each one drifting the boat along gently, and lapping at the sides quietly. The waves were hypnotic, and each one was almost identical. However, the perfection of their rehearsed dance was all torn down and burnt away when they hit the coast; Ink black sand, sea-smoothed rocks, speckled pebbles, and...human teeth.

 

Patrick had found...teeth there once- it was was after his accident, and, he really didn't know where they'd come from...For some crazy reason, he'd always suspected, or- maybe _assumed_ was the right word. Well, yes, he'd always _assumed_ that Pe-

 

It hurt to think about, so Patrick cut the thought short there, letting it tumble away into a cloud of ashy dust he could practically see in his mind.

 

 

The cliffs. Focus on the cliffs.

 

 

Grey, jagged and proud, and bottom halves eroded away by a few millimeters, as the result of high tides and constant wave-crashes.

And if Patrick cast his gaze up a little, he could see the hills. Green, lush, dotted with animals, edged with pale sand, and pin pricked with signposts, made to usher the lost to where they wanted to go.

 

Behind it all, the ever-present stone wardens guarded the landscape, confident, broad and sharp as they sat in the backdrop of the scene. Their strong shoulders and heads covered in powdery, white snow, as they carefully watched over the land, solid gaze never faltering- not even once.

 

Patrick's eyes found the Hvítserkur as he nuzzled into his wool scarf, tugging it over his nose with a free hand- that wasn't buried in a dog's fur.

 

That rock.

 

That damn rock.

 

The sole reason he'd moved to Iceland, the reason he'd met Brendon, bought a farm, become a fisherman, met Pe- the sole reason he'd turned his life around in a direction nobody would have expected.

 

The blonde knew his parents weren't _still_ fully convinced, despite seeing how good he had it with their own two eyes, and he knew for a fact that they'd always awkwardly avoid the topic of ' _What's Patrick doing now?_ '

 

Everyone had expected him to go to Chicago university; Get a degree, get a job, get married, have kids, and live out his days in Illinois- or the US, at the very least.

 

But no, instead, Patrick had done almost the complete opposite.

 

Move to Iceland, of all places, buy a farm, become a farmer, become a fisherman, get a boyf-

 

Patrick's gaze moved to the rucksack that sat beside him, further down the polished wood of the bench, and he decided that just watching the landscape was leading his thought process down unwanted routes.

 

So, in a split second decision, he reached over, taking the rucksack in his fist, and pulling it towards him. The blonde unbuttoned the flap, and rooted around inside for a moment, before fishing out a book to keep his thoughts focused, steady, and in one, set direction.

 

The book was in Icelandic, and if he was honest, Patrick didn't really know what it was about; Brendon had insisted he read it though, telling him that the only way to get past his shame and mental block with the language- was to ' _Just read it dude! I promise, it'll totally work!_ '.

 

Patrick huffed in amusement at Brendon's words ringing and repeating in his head, and he gave a small smile as he picked up where he'd left off- the last page he’d read was marked with an impromptu bookmark made from a scrap piece of paper.

 

The blonde had been reading for around half-an-hour, when he felt a small jolt.

 

It was tiny, weak, and almost unnoticeable, and Patrick just assumed it was a bigger catfish, or maybe just a bass, putting up a fight. So, he paid no mind, and the powder-blue gaze moved back down to foreign words, etched in raven black ink on cream-coloured pages.

 

But not long after, "- _FUCK_ \- what-" Patrick jolted forwards, startling Pancakes from his lap as the boat shifted again.

 

Patrick felt his breathing get heavy, his skull buzzed and reverberated with the sound the jolt had made, and he felt his heart beginning to pound and crash against its rib bone prison once again.

 

He didn't want to fall in again- _fuck_ , _he didn't want to fall in again_.

 

Feeling goosebumps prickling his skin, Patrick shifted off from the bench, and down to his knees as he settled on the floor. His gaze shot from place to place as baby-blues flitted around, and Patrick could feel himself tittering on the edge of something like a panic attack.

 

Another jolt.

 

It was weaker this time, but it still made Patrick yelp. The blonde shifted backwards, back pressing flush against the right, wooden edge of the boat. His eyes were blank, but wide in terror, as a gormless look spread across his features.

 

Somehow, Pancakes was braver this time, and Patrick watched her bound over to the left side of the boat, tail wagging furiously. Patrick's brow furrowed and his head he'd tilted curiously as he watched the dog’s odd actions.

 

She barked happily, bouncing excitedly, and finally, she stood on her hind legs to lean her front paws on the boat's edge. Pancakes barked joyfully into the water, tail becoming a blur as it thumped against her own legs.

 

Patrick blinked once, gratefulness washing over him when he felt his heart calm.

 

Pancakes was acting just like she did when Brendon came home to visit, after he’d been gone for months on an oil rig.

The excited, happy, and overwhelmed side to her that burst to the surface when she greeted a long-lost friend.

 

And she was barking into the-

 

The water.

 

The realization set in, and Patrick blinked, face lighting up, and feeling a spark of hope ignite in his chest, before-

 

He smothered it immediately.

 

He didn't want to get his hopes up. It hurt, it hurt so fucking much, and there'd been so many times that he’d gone out to the beach, or to the sea, searching. So many times he’d sit on the rocky steps and watch the waves, so many times he'd _thought_ that Pe-

 

Clearing the thoughts from his mind, Patrick decided to dispel that annoying voice that always plagued him when he lied to himself.

 

_If it's not him, go check._

 

Fine, Patrick _was_ going to check.

 

He shuffled to feet, cautiously stepping over to the left side of the boat, and taking care and caution to make sure he didn't accidentally slip on the water-speckled boat floor.

 

Patrick leaned over the edge, eyes wide, but chin up, and brow raised in an aloof expression.

 

_Pull it up. That is, if you're so sure it's just a fish._

 

Fine, Patrick _was_ going to pull it up.

 

With a heavy sigh, and a furrowed brow, Patrick hooked his fingers into the black net, grimacing as he turned. And with a clenched jaw, and a long groan, he tugged the fabric over his shoulder.

Patrick grunted and groaned as he pulled the net up from the water, walking over to the other, right side of the boat with strong, tensed footsteps and sharp, firm movements.

 

A breathy noise between a groan and a sigh escaped him as he turned again, hands firmly woven into the net material. Patrick's eyes were clamped shut as he reached a hand down, fingers hooking into the gaps. He repeated the movement, pulling the fabric towards him with a huge strain on his muscles every time.

 

One final heavy thud, and Patrick's eyes shot open.

 

The empty, top of the net was trailed over the benches, and the very top was tied and weaved into his fingers, while the bulk- where the catch lay, was hidden by the benches.

 

Patrick's shoulders hunched a little, and his spine curled forwards as a scared grimace set over his face.

 

It was torture.

 

He wanted to check.

 

_Then check._

 

But, he didn't either- What if he wasn't there?

 

_Just check, you won't know 'til you do._

 

If he wasn’t there- Oh god, if he wasn't there Patrick was going to lose his mind.

 

_There's no point in torturing yourself. Check._

 

Before he could even make a move, Pancakes had already bounded over, tail wagging, barking happily, and whining desperately.

 

He heard her make the distinct content, happy sounds she always made when someone scratched behind her ear.

 

Patrick was terrified.

 

...But of their own accord, completely unbidden- his legs moved.

 

Slow, clumsy, and shaky footsteps rang out against the wooden surface in the tortuous silence- that was _also_ disturbed by the pitter-patter of suffocating, hopping fish, and by Pancake's happy whines.

 

Patrick knelt on the bench, eyes cast downwards and almost closing, as pale hands hooked around the edge of where both back-to-back benches met.

 

With one, deep sigh, Patrick's slowly head moved upwards, eyes fluttering open tentatively as he tried to ignore the unbearable eel-like writhing in his stomach, chest, and throat. Fear, expectation, and hope, all mixed into a horrible concoction that coursed through his system and body painfully, ricocheting off of every surface and crevice, spreading through his very blood, and only getting stronger with time.

 

Patrick opened his eyes.

 

And there he was.

 

An involuntary, gasped and stuttered sob of relief wracked Patrick entirely, raging and tearing through his heart, mind and soul all at once, in one dazing and blinding flash- as all of his senses cut short for a mere moment.

 

_Pete_ was there, and he was alive, and real, and _there_ -

 

With more calmness than he'd thought was possible right now, Patrick stood, hooking a leg over the bench join, and moving both legs over, before stepping down onto the wooden floor, with two, light thuds of his soles.

 

All the calmness steadily melted and dripped away as Patrick crashed down onto his knees, a silent sob wracking his chest.

 

Pete's eyes shifted up to meet his.

 

They were ink black again, and his eyelids were lined with navy blue patches that stuck out against pastel grey skin- whether they were eyebags or bruises, Patrick didn't know.

 

Pete was hurt. He was hurt really bad. Wow, Brendon really hadn't been lying or exaggerating at all.

 

Patrick kinda wished he _had_ been.

 

Most of Pete was just coated with smeared royal-blue, and while his brain automatically told him it was paint- as that was what his brain related blue, viscous liquid to, Patrick knew it was actually blood.

 

Cuts, gouges, and scratches everywhere- deep and leaking, struggling to clot with black strings of lumpy blood.

 

One across his abdomen, more across his arms, one across the width of his neck-

 

Without a second thought, Patrick pulled his scarf away from his neck, and pressed it to Pete's instead, feeling panic setting in, before-

 

Gills.

 

Pete didn't need his damn neck to breathe, he had gills.

 

Despite his beaten state, Pete grinned, left hand hooking around Patrick's to pull the fabric away. Patrick grimaced as blood suddenly sparked up from Pete's neck, but the siren only exhaled softly, eyes closing for a brief moment- before they opened again, full of something Patrick could hardly determine in the state he was in.

They stared up at the blonde, and Pete's trembling left hand moved up to cup Patrick's cheek.

 

The human instantly leaned down to make the task easier, and he pressed his palm to the back of Pete's, letting a broad, sad smile spread on his face, and melancholy tears to slip down his cheeks.

 

 

 

"Don't cry, I'm sorry I bled on your dog."

 

 

 

The voice was strained and it sounded like Pete’s vocal chords were dragging across sandpaper, and while it made Patrick grimace a little- the blonde gave a sudden laugh at the words. When Patrick's sudden burst died, he shook his head, lip trembling as he leaned down, and both pale hands instantly moved to blue streaked cheeks.

 

The blonde made a point of staring into the inky eyes, and he felt his heart contract at every flash of pain, and at every glint of fear and worry that he saw in the shiny depths. Pete's right hand moved up to card through Patrick's hair, but it instantly hesitated, and Pete dropped it against the wooden floor again with a thunk.

 

Patrick furrowed his brow, one hand leaving Pete's cheek to capture a light grey, right wrist. He pulled up towards him, and-

 

Oh.

 

Pete's ring finger was gone.

 

Patrick felt steady jolts of silent sobs wrack his chest, and he glanced upwards as he tried to hide his watery eyes, while Pete shimmed his right hand away. The siren opted to grab Patrick's jacket, and pull him down, arms wrapping around him fully.

 

As Patrick's face buried in the crook of Pete's neck, his back jolted of its own accord, and soon enough, he found himself openly crying, hands struggling to grip at Pete- who was completely bare, and slippery with blood.

 

"I'm _so sorry_ Pete-"

 

It was Patrick’s fault. He knew it was his fault. If he hadn’t gone out fishing, if he hadn’t fucking fallen in-

 

Pete would’ve never turned back, Pete would’ve never gotten hurt, Pete would’ve never lost a-

 

But Pete said nothing, and his arms only tightened around the younger man, as Patrick subconsciously pulled them both upwards, leaning them both to sit up on the wooden surface.

 

Somehow, Patrick knew Pete didn't hold him responsible. The siren didn't even have to speak, and Patrick already knew it- way before the words even left his mouth.

 

 

"I'd do it again. It's not your fault. I love you."

 

 

Three short, simple sentences, and all the weight of guilt, terror and remorse had been lifted from Patrick's abused shoulders.

 

Their embrace was short lived however, as soon enough, a very left out feeling Pancakes had started pawing at their shoulders, whining quietly.

 

Both men laughed, separating and allowing the dog to rush Pete again, tail thumping happily as she nuzzled into his chest with content noises.

 

Patrick smiled, eyes growing teary again as he watched them; Pete looked just like he had before everything had happened; All the darkness and pain was gone for a moment, and the bright grin, crinkled eyes corners, and words laced with 'dude' took over and reigned again.

 

Then Patrick's thoughts turned darker.

 

And then Patrick's face dropped.

 

"Pete?"

 

The siren's eyes widened as his head tilted inquisitively, and his grin still set in place, short giggles escaping him every time Pancakes tried licking his face. "Yeah? Are you okay-?"

 

 

"What did that to you?"

 

 

' _That_ ' didn't have to be clarified- they both understood the question fully.

 

Pete's face dropped blank for a second, and he nodded curtly as his eyes cast downwards. His nine fingers focused on scratching behind Pancakes ears for a moment, before inky eyes glanced back to Patrick, and a rueful, sad smile spread across his face.

 

 

"Mermaids aren't nice to sirens, remember?"

 

 

Everything inside Patrick froze, and he found himself giving a breathy, angry laugh, nose wrinkling in disgust and fury.

 

Another jolt rocked the boat- but this one was stronger, and _harsher_.

 

Patrick's eyes, that had idly moved to stare at the edge of the boat, snapped back to Pete, full of seriousness. "Is that-?"

 

"Probably." Pete shrugged, trying to keep his expression calm, but Patrick could read the siren like a book by now; The hunched shoulders, the glints and flashes of fear and panic in the black eyes, and the sudden, intent desperation with which he distracted himself by petting Pancakes.

 

Patrick narrowed his eyes, a snarl almost escaping him as he stood, and moved to the edge of the boat, hands hooking around the edge.

Powdery blue eyes found the water, and Patrick’s brow furrowed deeply, mouth settling into a scowl.

 

"I know you're there, I need to talk to you."

 

He stared down into the waves, and soon enough, his sporting try was rewarded.

 

A ginger woman, a brown-haired man, and a blonde woman- missing an ear, for some reason- poked out of the water, and Patrick could spot more faces lurking beneath the surface, swimming figures of eights around the boat.

 

It freaked Patrick out a little- just _how human_ they looked, but Patrick knew that below the surface, there were tails, not legs.

 

The man spoke first, voice unique and purely human. "Ah, we needed to talk to you too, actually." The brunette shifted up a little, almost straining to see into the boat. He tried a hand around the edge, but Patrick's glare made him retract it.

 

The man glanced at the other two awkwardly, before turning up at Patrick, nodding respectfully, but eyes glinting with irritation. "Uh, we- we need the siren that's in there- i-in your boat, I mean. He- He killed a human, and that _cannot_ go unpunished-"

 

"Did that human happen to look anything like me?"

 

The three glanced at each other with wide, gormless eyes, as though it'd finally clicked, before the ginger girl tried a few firm words. "With all due respect, you don't really understan-"

 

"Oh I understand perfectly."

 

 

Patrick was gonna go full protective PTA mom on these bitches.

 

 

"I understand that you've been hounding him for close to an entire month, I understand that you've maimed him, I understand that you're too fucking stupid-"

 

Patrick felt good saying swear words, they felt good...especially when directed at people who'd tried to kill _the fucking love of his goddamn life_.

 

The human glared down at the mermaids, what had once been only embers, were now full, glowing flames of rage and protectiveness.

 

"So here's what gonna happen."

 

Patrick exhaled sharply, the ghost of a proud smirk weaving onto his face as he gazed down at the three, nervous faces, and as he noticed the other colours had stopped moving under the surface of the water, glinting colours and faces completely stationary in shock now.

 

"You will never touch him again."

 

They seemed to want to protest, but they quickly held their tongues as Patrick continued.

 

"Or, I'll find you, and your entire families, aND I'LL TURN YOU ALL INTO FUCKING SUSHI, _GET IT?_ ** _FUCK. OFF._** "

 

With that final, raised voice, the creatures ducked away, disappearing with familiar, terrified screeches.

 

When Patrick left the edge, and turned back into his boat, he glanced down at the siren; Pete's face was lit up with biggest, most disbelieving and yet, _impressed_ grin Patrick had ever seen. And it was paired along with wide eyes, and quiet, inspired trembles of laughter.

Before the siren could even speak again, Patrick cut him off with a grin and a question as he stepped over to the helm.

 

"Can you still hold your breath for ten minutes?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete spluttered a little as Patrick threw a bucketful of salt water over him. "I'll be right back, gotta get the-"

Patrick motioned his head towards the house and Pete nodded, instantly understanding what he meant. Patrick started sprinting away over the beach, being chased by Pancakes, who could now effortlessly jump up the rocky steps beside him, and didn’t require being carried the whole way.

 

The blonde burst forwards, legs bolting across the grass, and pretty much, _crashing_ through the gate, as he ran towards the white front door of his house.

 

Patrick jiggled the handle, and shoved the door open with a grunt, before wildly searching the room with wide eyes. With a deep, determined and gasped sigh, Patrick sprinted forwards, moving down the hallway, before turning to the door on the right wall, swinging it open, and finally- stepping inside.

 

In the blink of an eye, Patrick moved towards an oatmeal sack, gripping it by the lower corners and pulling it upwards; It was new, Patrick had bought it in town last month, and he couldn't help but grimace as the flawless oats spilled everywhere, thudding to the stone floor, and settling with a cloud of their own dust.

 

Inhale, exhale, prepare for a sprint, and Patrick bolted out of the house again, shoving through the backdoor to save time.

  
  


With a stumble, he crashed to his hands and knees in dry black sand, before speeding forwards, pushing himself up with his palms, and kicking sprays of raven powder behind him.

 

Patrick reached the boat again, faced flush and chest rising and falling in pants as he jumped in ungracefully- coaxing a laugh from Pete as the human rubbed his sore, _probably_ _due to bruise_ , knees with a hiss and a grimace.

 

The blonde stepped forwards, nodding down at Pete with a smile as he held the bag open and leaned down. "Ready?"

 

Pete grinned, eyes full of trust and adoration.

 

"Ready."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Jesus- Why- Fucking _tails_ \- ugh-"

 

"Do you even lift bro?"

 

" _Shut up_ Pete."

 

He heard Pete's laughter ring out, despite being significantly muffled by tarp and a flax sack of oats.

 

Patrick was pulling the bulk up the stairs again- for the second time in his life, and he had to admit, he felt a lot calmer about it this time; He knew Pete wasn't gonna bite him, he knew Pete could hold his breath for ten minutes- so he wasn't gonna die, and he knew exactly what was gonna happen as soon as Pete was settled in the bathtub again.

 

The blonde heard barking, and he glanced up the remaining, curled steps to see that Pancakes- who had previously been watching over them curiously, was now barking at something behind her with a wagging tail.

 

Shit, people- He did not need Skefill right now. He did not need Thury right now. He did not need Holm right now. He just needed time, and some inner strength to get this motherfucker with like, a plain _unnecessary_ , _two meter long tail_ , up this fucking cliff-

 

"Patrick? You good dude?"

 

Fuck- _Brendon_.

 

Patrick exhaled heavily. Shit, at least it was better than Holm.

 

"I'm- _shit_ \- good Brendon thanks."

 

The strawberry-blonde was struggling, that much was obvious, and Brendon's head tilted as the older man started down the steps, making Patrick tense instinctively.

 

"I-I uh-"

 

"I can help you out dude, s'no big deal." Brendon reached Patrick's side, before taking one more step down, as brown eyes locked on where Pete's head would be in the tarp. "What _is_ this-?"

 

"N-n-"

 

Before Patrick could even get a word out, Brendon had already pulled back the join of the tarp, revealing-

 

 

"Hi Brendon!"

 

 

Brendon jumped with a loud, very audible yelp, and he crashed backwards into the rock wall that edged the staircase, eyes wide and chest panting. The older man's mouth moved fruitlessly as his eyes shifted from Pete, to Patrick, and from Patrick, to Pete. Pete's laughter rang out, now less muffled, due to the gap Brendon had opened in the material.

 

"W-w-wh-"

 

Patrick only sighed, hitching the bulk upwards and taking a step back, pulling it back, and moving one step higher, as he grimaced slightly.

 

"Look, Brendon just- help me out here- I'll explain-"

 

"That's _Pete?_ "

 

"Y'know," A drawled, sarcastic voice rang out from the tarp, "I'm right here, so like, _stop_ -"

 

" _Just_ \- _shhh_." Patrick squinted down at the visible slither of Pete's face, and quickly shushed him- before Brendon developed PTSD.

 

Without another word, and with a blank face, Brendon stepped forwards, and picked up the end of the bulk- almost robotically, and he helped Patrick carry it the rest of the way- not asking anything, or even complaining _once_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Thankgodholyshit-"

Pete sank under the cold water in the bathtub, eyes closing gratefully for a second as the water tinged blue. The siren resurfaced with a grin, forearm leaning on the edge as he grinned amusedly at both panting, red-faced, and wordless humans. "I thought was gonna _die_ , honestly, you guys took _so long_ \- it's _unbelievable_."

 

"Y-Y- fuck, that was- _AGH_." Brendon's hands- that had been dropped to his own thighs as his back hunched with pants- ran over his face as he finally straightened up, spine extending as he leaned back.

 

Patrick exhaled deeply, before inhaling the same way, and standing up straight.

 

"You're welcome, asshole."

 

"You're welcome too, pumpkin."

 

Patrick's nose wrinkled at the unfortunate nickname, but Pete quickly elaborated, as his eyes flitted between the struggling and straining Brendon, and the cheery, joyful, and totally _not exhausted_ , Pancakes.

 

"'Cause you're kinda ginger, y'know?"

 

"What...?"

 

"-And like, pumpkins are orange, and your hair kinda is too-"

 

"Okay, okay-" Brendon held up a hand, "Wait. Just wait a sec."

 

Both Patrick and Pete turned their gazes to Brendon, both sets of brows raising involuntarily. Brendon looked between them both, chocolate brown eyes swimming with confusion, yet clarity, and something pressing, and important looked to be on the tip of Brendon's tongue.

 

"So, you _aren't_ cousins?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The tail, holy shit-"

 

"Yeah, it's pretty crazy-"

 

"And like, the spines- the spiky things! Didya see those?!"

 

"Yep, yes I did-"

 

"And the teeth! Goddamn that's awesome-"

 

"Well, ' _awesome_ ' wasn't the word _I_ used at first-"

 

"Wow, holy fuck- like, legitimately, _holy shit_."

 

"Yeah, it's really amazing Brendon."

 

The pair's walk through the yard and to Brendon's car promptly ended as they reached the shiny, metal vehicle, and the older man turned with wide eyes, mouth still gaping a little, and a seemingly, _permanently raised_ brow.

 

It was nighttime now; The sun had fully set with beautiful shades of pink and gold, and the sky now was painted a dark, inky blue, speckled with pinpricks of white, glowing stars.

 

Patrick only smiled tiredly- the goddamn emotional rollercoaster that had been _today_ had really tuckered him out.

 

Brendon fished his keys- that were linked to ridiculous novelty keychains- from his pocket, and took them firmly in his hand, but before he moved to get into his car- he looked back at the strawberry-blonde, with a softer expression this time.

 

 

"I'm glad you aren't in an incestous relationship with your cousin, Patrick."

 

 

Goddamnit Brendon.

 

"...So am I."

 

They both dissolved into sudden easy laughs, and Brendon finally moved to slip into the driver's seat. "But seriously, Patrick-" Brendon leaned out of the window- that he'd quickly and subtly rolled down.

 

"Yeah Brendon?"

 

The older man smiled softly, eyes twinkling with relief and relaxed joy.

 

"I'm glad he's back."

 

Patrick smiled too, desperately trying to keep salty tears that threatened to spill from his eyes at bay.

 

"So am I, Brendon."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"There, all done."

Patrick tightened the final bandage around the hole in Pete's left palm, thumb idly running over the ring of bite-marks on his ring finger as the blonde smiled softly. Powder blues glanced up to ink blacks, "See? Wasn't that bad right?"

 

Pete grinned, natural, jagged, and _very_ _familiar_ shark teeth poking out, before the siren rolled his eyes and his face dropped into a dramatic pout, speaking with a fake-whiny voice. "You're _such_ a liar, it _hurt so bad_."

 

The blonde grinned, huffing with quiet laughter as he spoke again. "Shut up."

 

They both collapsed into loud laughter again, and Patrick suddenly realized he'd been clinging to Pete's left hand- making the siren have to lean his arm over uncomfortably, shoulder tense and strained to keep the limb where it was.

 

"Oh, sorry-"

 

Only, Pete's grip on Patrick's hand tightened, and he simply leaned up, and a damp, but bandaged right hand moved to join the left.

 

Patrick subconsciously leaned forwards slightly, breath hitching silently as Pete did the same.

 

Pete shuffled his left hand free, while his right hand tightened around Patrick's. The left moved up to Patrick's eyes, fabric-clad palm pressing over them, while the right trailed its thumb over Patrick's knuckles, in soft, smooth circles.

 

"Pete, _what_ -?"

 

Before any words came, either from Patrick in protest, or from Pete in defense- two mouths slotted together.

 

Patrick shivered, skin tingling wherever Pete touched it. The blonde sighed softly, pulling Pete's hand away from his eyes, before pulling back completely. Pete’s eyes flitted around skittishly, avoiding eye contact as he cleared his throat quietly.

 

Pete was still nervous.

 

After all this time.

 

Patrick smiled as he traced Pete’s cheekbone softly, for once not at all perturbed by scales, black eyes and fifteen rows of teeth.

 

He only saw Pete.

 

And fuck, _he loved Pete_.

 

"I missed you."

 

Pete's face lit up at the soft words, eyes finally meeting Patrick’s.

 

"I missed you too."

 

Patrick's fingertips caressed and traced Pete's jaw as he leaned forwards again, pressing soft, sweet kisses from warm pink lips, to cold, paled-grey ones.

Pete shuddered in relief, linking his left hand through strawberry-blonde strands, while his right laced pale, and, grey fingers together.

 

Tilted heads, sighs, and whispered sweet nothings, and Patrick had fallen in love all over again. They pulled away for a second, before Pete moved to kiss Patrick's cheek softly, closed smile settling on his face.

 

"I love you Patrick."

 

"I love you too Pete."

  


Pete grinned.

 

Patrick ignored the scary teeth.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And fin!
> 
> I hope that ending lived up to expectations, and while I usually do epilouges, I wasn't too sure one would fit here.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read, commented, left kudos, or bookmarked- you're all amazing, and it's been a real pleasure to wake up to your feedback and support every, single day.
> 
> Also, shoutout to the amazing, and extremely patient- laudanum_cafe, for putting up and dealing with my hyperactive self and brainstorming lol, it's much appreciated dude.
> 
> I really hope everyone enjoyed this story, because I enjoyed writing it so much, it's unreal. I'd been kicking this idea around for a while, and I'm so glad it's finally taken shape and form!
> 
> If you've been reading my stuff for a while, you know I'm 100% Peterick trash, and I'm a hyperactive puppy when it comes to uploading fics and updating, so *drumroll*- You can probably (almost certainly) expect a new fic tomorrow! Once again, it's changing direction from this one- but I'm so stupidly excited and enthusiastic about it that I really hope you'll all give it a chance, and enjoy it!!
> 
> Thank you all again, seriously, every single one of you really motivates me to keep this going! <3


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